


The Mirror Image

by notreallycreative



Series: Our Way is the Old Way [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Long-Time Span, Mental Instability, Multi, Parallels, Post ADWD, Prostitution, Sexual Content, mentions of abuse, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notreallycreative/pseuds/notreallycreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War of the Five Kings is finished, leaving Westeros in shambles, but the echoes of it are far from over. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms is supposed to be decided before the winter comes. Meanwhile, both Arya and Sansa Stark begin quests of their own, not realizing just how much it will influence the world - whether they wished to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hell yes, I have finally released this.  
> Disclaimer: not mine, dammit

_-Lord Protector’s Daughter-_

_301 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

“They say he’s very handsome, you know. Your betrothed to be.”

She glanced at her dear friend. Mya Stone had, as it seemed, forsaken her uneven stitches already a while ago, deciding instead to eye the younger girl with heed.

“They do”, admitted Alayne, focusing back on her needlework. “But that is only one of many things said about him.”

“You mean the child.”

Alayne nodded reluctantly. It was not entirely a lie, not really, for she did pay a certain amount of thought to rumours concerning the babe. Others though, were calling for her attention far more urgently.

“One of our handmaidens knows the people who took her in,” she revealed, tugging on a thread. “The girl’s name is Alys and she is nearly three. There were talks of sending her to Lady Anya Waynwood for upbringing ever since her mother passed away from greyscale, thankfully unconfirmed.”

Mya sighed at that, putting away her miserable so-called needlework and awkwardly embracing Alayne with one arm.

“That is only a bastard kid, my sweet. Men don’t ever care about those, even if it may seem otherwise at first. Your father is the only one I’ve seen act differently and he... well, he hasn’t got any other children to care for, I suppose. And, honestly, who would be able not to love you? Harry will fall for those pretty eyes of yours, that is certain. He’ll care more about you than of any natural kid he could’ve ever fathered. You will have so many beautiful babes together, sons and daughters, I’m sure. Worry not.”

Such words were always sweet to hear, but still could not change the facts. Harry the Heir was supposed to be handsome and gallant and skilful with a sword in hand. So many beautiful things were said about the man and that, as she was once taught, did not mean anything good.

That evening, when Mya was already changing into her nightgown, Alayne dared to glance at their sewing, still lying in the corner of her chamber. As tidy and fine as her mockingbird was, the mountain her friend tried to embroider looked rather miserable. She tended to make mistakes almost instantly after starting, unable to stay focused. Just like another girl Alayne once shared a chamber with.

Too far. She almost crossed the line. That must never happen, or she won’t be able to get to tomorrow.

The events of the next several days, however, made her question whether it wouldn’t be easier to actually die the night before.

*

The next day the messenger arrived far too early in the morning to be a casual one. No one had been expecting any shocking news. Not much had happened lately, apart from “Aegon Targaryen” (her father had called him a liar and a pretender and, therefore, so did she) marrying the Dornish princess, Arianne and his and poor Tommen’s forces bleeding each other out in Stormlands.

This time however the message appeared to be crucial and, after reading it, Father told her to immediately escort Sweetrobin back to his chambers and put to sleep once more.

“I am certain it is nothing interesting,” she assured the boy when he complained about not being able to receive the letter himself. “Lord father would not have you rest again if he didn’t think you would be bored by the news, I’m sure.”

Robert Arryn grimaced. It was supposed to look intimidating, she supposed, pretending to be disturbed by his moods, but appeared rather pathetic on the tiny child’s face. He liked it when people found him impressive, even if they never actually did.

“I am the lord of the Vale. I want to see it!”

Alayne forced herself to smile sweetly, tucking little Robin in.

“Of course you are my lord. One day, when you grow even bigger and stronger, every message will be brought straight to you. And if you close your eyes and dream, it will come faster. I promise.”

When she finally managed to make him fall asleep, everyone except for her already knew.

Mya dragged Alayne to the edge of the pine forest that grew just outside The Gates, while lord protector was busy punishing the overly talkative messenger.

“Apparently King Stannis Baratheon died in some still uncertain circumstances. His bannermen blame that Red Witch of his though, the one that’s been burnin’ all those people earlier, but no one knows truly what happened. So now Shireen Baratheon, his daughter, inherited his claim to the Iron Throne. Wonder how long that will last, I hear she’s no more than a kid, and sickly too. Oh, but that’s just the beginning.”

There was something large and dark moving behind the first layer of trees, just on the border. If not for the heavy snowfall, she would’ve been able to see it properly, but the weather had been horrible since the morning two days earlier.

“The whole North is in chaos, that man said. It’s ‘coz o’ that girl who wasn’t really a Stark, he said.”

Sansa spun around to look her friend in the eye, completely forgetting about suspicious moving shadows.

“What? What girl?”

 _‘No, don’t ask! Don’t be interested_ ,’ she reminded herself instantly. Why would Alayne care about such things? Both her mother and father were from places either far south or east. Alayne Stone did not know anything about the Starks. She was just an insignificant bastard girl to the lord protector, nothing more.

“Arya Stark. Well, not the real one obviously, as she is probably long dead. Y’know, that main family in the North that used to rule there before the war? Everyone thought that the Bastard of Bolton married one of them, but it seems he only got some steward’s daughter, Jeyne or something. And now because of that the Northerners feel cheated.”

Alayne stumbled to the nearest rock, her pace suddenly far from graceful. She had to sit for a moment, or her legs would fail her.

Arya Stark had been her sister once. And Jeyne… Jeyne Poole, daughter of their steward. She had expected nothing else from Arya’s fate after all these years, even if it was still too terrible to think of, but never thought to consider that of Jeyne’s. Her best friend. Sansa’s best friend, who cried at the sight of blood, Jeyne who dreamt of marrying a handsome lord.

“What happened? To that girl, that is. Jeyne.”

Mya shrugged and for a moment Alayne almost hated her friend for such nonchalance. But why would a natural born from the Vale be concerned by such news? No, neither of them should.

“Nobody knows. Or at least nobody remembers. But I bet she died. Her husband’s a monster, everybody says so.”

Monster. Jeyne Poole married a monster. _I bet she died_. Gods. She felt her breath quickening. Faster and faster. Mya was still talking, but her words did not reach Alayne properly. Jeyne Poole married the Bastard of Bolton. _I bet she died_. _I bet she died, I bet she died_ , _I bet she died_ , _I bet she died_. Her head was spinning and she had to keep herself from fainting.

Somehow, she slowed her breathing down, trying to ignore a sudden pain that appeared in her chest. After all, Alayne didn’t know any steward’s daughter. Alayne would not care.

She looked down at her palms. Her hands were trembling and the nails had marked them red, something she didn’t realize earlier, when it had been happening.

“If that’s so, then maybe Father will punish him,” she heard her voice as if the words weren’t coming from her. “Maybe _someone_ will do _something_.”

Mya chuckled at that, tilting her head towards Alayne, but the expression on her face was only partly gleeful.

“I’m sure that if you ask your sweet Ser Harry, Ramsay Bolton will drop dead within a moon.”

*

It was Father who had asked to see her, not the other way around, yet Alayne still hesitated before knocking. Petyr’s solar always managed to make her shiver.

“Come in, my sweet girl.”

Myranda Royce had once confessed to her that she had thought Lord Protector to be a truly frightening man upon first meeting him and, while Alayne did not exactly agree, she could sometimes see why people would consider him scary. Petyr Baelish had that unsettling look in his eyes she learned to understand a bit too well during her time in the Vale. But he was also caring and wise and took her with him despite the fact that she was solely a bastard girl. Even Mya had thought that to be unusual, Alayne reminded herself. People never understood how much he tried to keep everything and everyone together.

“I suspect the mule rider has already told you some of the stories,” he sighed heavily, pouring her a cup of Dornish wine. She nodded jerkily, ignoring the name he often addressed Mya with. It was by no means kind, but she had already learned that changing his ways was always quite impossible.

“Yes. The one concerning the death of Stannis Baratheon. And… and some others as well.”

“About that false Arya Stark, you mean.”

“Jeyne,” she corrected him unconsciously, biting her tongue a moment too late. “That was her name. Jeyne Poole. I... I heard some of the guards talking.”

"You did not. Don't lie to me, daughter, you know how much that upsets me."

Alayne gripped the edge of her chair.

"Forgive me, my lord. That was not my intention."

Father glanced at her above his papers. There was some empathy in his smile, one she would normally embrace, but this time it only brought back a memory. Suddenly, she remembered another day, a life ago, when a stupid little girl was given a promise.

He said he’ll find Jeyne a place.

She swallowed those words in the last second, just as they were about to leave her mouth. Her Lord Father would not approve of them.

Still, they were true. He promised to take care of Jeyne Poole and she died. Her Jeyne.

Petyr sighed deeply. His face was marked with exhaustion. He’s been working so hard lately. A mistake, she told herself, it all must have been a mistake, only a one that cost the steward’s daughter her life.

“The whole story has been unraveled way too soon. But that is something for another time. There is more. Whatever has happened at the Wall is still too unclear to name, but it is beyond doubt that many lives were lost during those last couple of months. It is still too hard to guess what will that chaos provide, especially since all information I’ve got from there so far is that the Wall, the giant ice blockade was set on fire. I haven’t heard the peasants talk of an equally ridiculous story in years. Oh, and one more thing. Roose Bolton is almost certainly dying. Greyscale got him. Those would all be good news, possibly even great, if not for the time. Too fast, it’s all happening too fast.”

“What shall we do then, father?”

He wove his fingers through hers, smiling tiredly. His eyes remained cold, though. ‘ _They always do_ , she reminded herself _, you just learned not to think of it_.’

“Now, my dear, we wait. You should meet your betrothed soon, I suppose. Lady Anya has been pressing on the matter lately. And then, when you marry, we will see.”

As did Jeyne. Dear, sweet Jeyne who did not deserve her fate, whatever it was.

 _I bet she died_. Alayne glanced at her father.

And then she smiled back.

*

It was Mya who found her sobbing in the corner of their chamber several hours later. Sansa wasn’t so stupid anymore, though; had she told anyone what truly bothered her everything would end. The unfortunate messenger’s body hanging for the crows’ game in the yard was enough of a reminder.

“I just couldn’t stand to watch that poor man” she lied instead. It was becoming alarmingly easy. A proper lady does not need to foul her mouth with lies, she was always told. But maybe, maybe it didn’t work that way with bastard girls. “I know father had to punish him for his indiscretions, but it is simply too awful of a sight.”

Mya took Alayne’s hand in hers.

“You have a gentle, sweet heart, is all. Mayhap too sweet, even. But I’m sure Lord Baelish only does these things to protect us, you especially.”

Like Jeyne. What did he do to her? He promised to take care of her, find a nice place for the steward’s daughter and the steward’s daughter is now dead. Her little friend she almost forgot she once loved, but who she now lost just like everyone else.

 _I bet she died_.

He was friendly with her lord father too, she remembered suddenly, recalling those first moments in Kings Landing, when everything was still splendid and she was still naive. And now, after all this time, it seemed that she had learned nothing.

She was barely aware of Mya, who tried to calm her down by stroking her hair.

“I am grateful for my Lord Father’s caution and care”, she announced and her voice sounded empty in the chamber. A terrible liar, that’s what he had always called her. But no, not anymore. Had the boy not been a proof of this? Her boy. Yes, she needed him.

She excused herself and left the room, crossing through the castle’s yard and then outside, heading for the postern gate, now close to abandoned due to the weather. At winter, when the seat of House Arryn was relocated to The Gates of the Moon, few would venture beyond it. Still, once dragged by Mya to explore the pine forest and the wonderful Alyssa’s Tears, Alayne was since said to be enchanted by the Giant’s Lance.

“Did anyone see you sneak out?”

Alayne spun around, almost reaching for the knife she had brought with her, but it was just Rickon, as always hiding in his direwolf’s shadow.

“Of course not,” she snapped, irritated, wiping the tears that were still present on her face. “ _I_ am careful. You on the other hand could be doing much better. I saw you two earlier today by the edge of the forest. If not for the weather you would have been sighted by the guards and Father would have found out.”

She handed him a loaf of bread and some dried apples stolen from the kitchens by an oblivious Mya.

“That is all I’ve got. Forgive me, this time I had to actually eat some of what my friend took to seem more convincing.”

“’S alright,” he decided, tearing the bread in half with his dirty fingers and stuffing one of the halves in his mouth. “Shaggy’s doing his share of hunting, so we’ve got us some meat most days, you know.”

Sansa did not answer, watching the little boy with growing concern. Muddy, unkempt and with leafs in his once shiny auburn hair, he looked more like a wildling child from one of the Old Nan’s stories than a king’s brother. After he first found her she tried getting him to wear more appropriate, cleaner clothes or at least to scrub his face with snow, but it had all turned out to be pointless. Rickon was as untamed as that direwolf of his and would sooner boil himself alive than allow her to wash his hair.

She fumbled with the bag, trying very hard not to look at him.

“There was news from the North today,” she sighed. “That ‘Arya’ people have been talking about lately was... she was someone else. You were right. It was another girl.”

She didn’t tell him what truly mattered. He would not remember Jeyne anyway.

“Bran was right, you mean,” he corrected her, finishing the bread and reaching for the apples. “And of course he was. He knows everything. He’ll find the real Arya too, you’ll see.”

“Of course he will.” After such a day Alayne didn’t even have the strength to deal with that aspect of her brother’s madness. Still, she realized she would have to explain to him at some point, that Bran doesn’t really speak to the boy in his dreams and that Shaggydog and Rickon aren’t the same person in two bodies. He certainly can’t reach adulthood (however distant it still was) believing in talking trees, skinchangers and giants. A King in the North needs to have a clear mind.

As soon as she thought it, it hit her. Rickon, King in the North. Just like their brother Robb, brave and strong, only very, very alive and safe, protecting the kingdom from Lannisters and Boltons. He could do that. He could bring them home. The lords in the North would fight for him, she knew it. Sansa would help her brother as well, by taking care of the household and other things before he grew old enough. In Winterfell.

Strangely determined, she took out the knife.

“Turn around,” she ordered, in a stern voice she often heard Petyr use for Robert Arryn. “You need to have your hair cut.”

For some reason he listened, allowing her to deprive him of more than half of his hair.

“I thought only mothers can do that.”

She meant to correct him, she did, but for some reason a half-lie came out instead, somehow sounding more genuine than all her previous ones.

“Maybe. But I am your sister and her blood flows through my veins just as much as yours. Now turn back.”

He did and she finished her work, putting the knife back in her sleeve. The boy seemed far more innocent with the new look.

“That has to be it for now. But next time we meet, I shall start teaching you letters. It is high time you know them.”

“Why?”

Sansa smiled at her brother sweetly, taking his hand into hers.

“Because, Rickon, every king needs to know his letters. And you are going to be a great king. So great that we will be able to go home and no one will even bother us. No more hiding in the shadows. Never again.”

No one will ever bother them again. For a heartbeat she actually let herself believe it and that single moment was enough.

Rickon will get them to Winterfell. He will set things right and sit on the throne and rule, just like their brother should have had. And then they will finally be safe, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Lord Protector’s Daughter  
> Year: 301 AL  
> Time period: 2 days  
> Characters: Alayne Stone, Mya Stone, Petyr Baelish, Rickon Stark, Robert Arryn,
> 
> The OC’s will not be playing any big parts in the story and will appear as rarely as it is possible- since I really try to avoid creating them.  
> The next chapter is to be Arya's.


	2. The Red Tunic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why pointing out the year is necessary here.  
> Disclaimer: this still isn't mine.

-someone-

_303 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

When a ridiculously rich and dangerously fat man decides he wants something, it is usually assumed he is (sooner rather than later) going to get it. Whatever the said thing is.

It all started the day one of those rich and fat men of Braavos decided that what he absolutely and wholly needed to have in his life was – for an unknown reason – a Godswood.

The women at Happy Port were unable to tell her why, but it was certain that the man was completely devoted to the idea. He even planted a weirwood in the middle – that was, at least, how the story was always told: he had been the one behind planting it. (It was not true.)

The sole thought of creating such a place on private property was hardly uncommon, though. With winter’s worst winds roaming through Westeros, both continents were invaded by a fashion for small, easily maintained Godswoods with weirwoods in them, completely unconnected to northerners’ religion, to the point, where not owning one of them was pretty much equal with renunciation from being a part of the elite in Free Cities. Or Westeros, as a matter of fact. That was actually where the fashion originated, and not only because of its religious roots.

Quite obviously though, the poorer part of society never thought to give a single shit.

Counting herself a member of that (significantly) poorer part, she did not care either.

But then, the heart tree the rich man had planted started growing and growing and with it came the dreams.

She had known wolf dreams before, of course. They’d been there since before she could remember, and so was the nightmare that was always the same and yet she could never remember what it was about. But this, this was new. Maybe because it hardly ever ended when she woke up.

There was a bird for sure, with black wings and a frightening stare. It seemed like something was awfully wrong with his head, but she could never truly see what exactly.

He called to her with a voice of a man, or maybe a crone. Sometimes she thought it was no more than a little boy. There was only one thing about it that mattered, though.

He called to her.

At first it was a plea for revenge, a list of names she was supposed to hate, getting more and more urgent with each night. Those dreams were always the clearest, calmest – she supposed it was because they moved her the least.

But then – then he started invading her nightmare. _The_ nightmare. And suddenly, she could see it a lot more easily than she would’ve liked.

A man was laughing, talking to a woman with thick black hair who was sitting next to him. He then turned his head to look at her again and she realized he must have been much younger than she had earlier thought him to be due to the hair – and then he opened his mouth to say _those_ words. And as he did, the bird sat on his shoulder, staring.

She awoke at once, gasping and crying violently like she always did after that particular dream. The man never got to say the words, not once. And she was forever thankful to the gods, the Old and the New, for not having to hear them.

“We all got dreams that should not be,” told her the Sailor’s Wife one day, after she confessed to being afraid of falling asleep. “That does not mean you should let them consume you, my sweet.”

The women at Happy Port were her best friends. The Sailor’s Wife even more so than the others took to spending time with her, especially after she had sent away her only daughter, Lanna, over a year earlier. It always occurred to her how ridiculous of a replacement she must have been. Lanna was one of the most beautiful young women the city of Braavos had ever seen and the smartest too. The courtesan never voiced such opinions though, for which she was grateful.

The crow appeared again and again, showing up in her dreams whether they concerned a pack of wolves or a man with white hair and a red tunic.

There always was a lot of red. Red, red, red, wherever she was.

And as the heart tree grew larger, she saw even more black birds, flying over her head, sitting by the docks, staring. They never stopped staring and she was always the only one to notice them. Mayhap she was falling into madness.

That was ridiculous, she decided. She was mad long before the Godswood had appeared.

It wasn’t until she found the sword, however, when things really started to get out of hand.

She came to her senses when standing by the stairs in front of the House of Black and White, holding a small sword, not having any idea how she got there. A girl came out of the temple then, younger than her, to chase her away.

“This house does not have a place for you anymore,” she remembered her saying. “Go back to your sorrows, wolf child, and don’t come in here again.”

She had no idea why anyone would ever think she wanted to come _back_. She always avoided the House of Black and White as much as it was possible, not seeing a reason to get any closer. At least until that day: the day she found the sword.

When she was walking away, she noticed her crow sitting by the Temple of the Moonsingers.

*

There was a short list of names he would repeat to her in the dreams for some reason, but whatever he was trying to achieve by that did not work. She did not even manage to remember the people the crow mentioned, maybe apart from Cersei Lannister, the queen regent of Westeros, who she only recognized because there was a pirate ship called after her that all the sailors frequently mentioned. This time, however, she saw a face.

It wasn’t the laughing blond from her nightmare, or the black-haired beautiful woman that often sat beside him. This face was new. It belonged to a young man with dark hair, probably a couple of years older than her. His eyes were tired and rather mistrustful, but more honest than she’d seen in a long time, even though she had met a lot of people. And, most importantly, it was a face she certainly remembered.

It was a face of someone who cared about her still. She knew that without any doubt.

The next night the white haired man appeared in her dreams once more, almost saying those dreaded words over and over, even as blood gushed out of his mouth, stumbling towards her. She woke up screaming and clutching the newly found sword, wishing never to remember what those words were.

After that, however, she started dreaming of the other man much more, hearing him laugh at her, as if she had said something funny, but still with so much love in his voice. It made her yearn for more.

“He’s been looking for you for a long while,” told her the crow one day, as she was running in front of her pack, sniffing for blood. “And you were here all the time, so out of reach. It’s as if you do not care if he finds you. It’s as if you do not care about him at all.”

 _‘I do not know that man’_ , she’d wanted to tell him, scream at him, but did that really matter? She’d certainly known him once. And they’d loved each other enough to still remember, years later. Enough for him to search for her all this time. Enough to be home.

That night she dreamed of him mussing her hair and saying a name she could not hear and that had finally sealed the deal.

Whoever she was, whatever had happened to her memory, she was going to find out. And, most importantly, she was going to find the man that was her family.

*

That night her nightmare was finally different, though she could hardly consider it an improvement.

Or maybe it simply developed.

She remembered herself running outside of an inn by Ragman’s Harbor, followed shortly by the white haired man and the black haired woman. They both looked quite apologetic, but the man did not stop talking, again and again repeating the words she didn’t allow herself to hear. Still, she turned around to face them and…

A silent scream left her mouth, when a girl with her own face stood between them and covered her ears, cutting her off from the words. As the man’s mouth moved, though, that other version of her froze and suddenly broke into a thousand pieces, leaving them alone. And, out of nowhere, there was a fruit knife in her hand. She looked at the man’s tunic; the red stain on its front was growing terrifyingly fast.

She hated herself for killing that man – whether it was actually true or not. Whatever had happened. She had killed somebody. Merry and the Sailor’s Wife probably knew. They were probably disgusted. She killed somebody who did not try to harm her.

She wondered if HE knew. And if not, what would he have to say about it.

“He’d hate me too,” she told the bird one day.

 _‘No, he loves you’_ , whispered a voice in her head and she could not decide whether it was the bird or maybe herself. _‘He would understand – if only you’d let him. That’s how a pack works.’_

It was why less than a senninght later she found herself in one of the many harbours, listening to the sailors talking. Lady Bright was set to sail to Pentos, Titan’s Daughter was supposed to go to the Summer Isles and Ardent Friend was leaving for King’s Landing, all in a day’s time. She glanced between them uncertain, holding her new sword tighter. Men sometimes got the wrong idea when a woman wanted to buy herself a cabin, Merry once told her. ‘ _They always confuse which coin you want to pay them with.’_ She heard those words a long time ago already, not understanding what the owner of Happy Port had in mind, but now she was not so stupid. And she definitely did not want the sailors confused about what sort of payment she was willing to offer.

She looked at the purple ship named Titan’s Daughter. There was something sweet to it, almost as if it was calling her home. But that was ridiculous. The boat was not a home, only a means to it, and she wasn’t even sure if it should be that one. Summer Isles did not sound any more right than Braavos did and there must’ve been a reason for her to leave the city.

“Girl!”

She turned around, instinctively reaching towards her sword. There was a short, stocky man of mayhap forty years standing by the Ardent Friend, staring at her. His eyes were incredibly red, almost shining.

“Yes?”

“You look like you’re in a great need of coin, girl, and I just lost one of my seafarers to Happy Port. You want in? One way only.”

Was that a trick? Why would he ask just a random person about joining him and his crew on his cruise across the Narrow Sea? And a girl too. Men hardly ever saw how valuable women were.

But as she gaped at him in shock, it suddenly occurred to her just how abnormal his eyes were. People did not have irises like that, not even among the diverse folk of Braavos, and those of his skin colour especially. You could not dye your eyes like Tyroshi and Pentoshi dye their hair.

The man’s trading cog was visible right behind him, towering over the other two ships like a mother over her young. King’s Landing… yes, that would be perfect, wouldn’t it? After all, she remembered, Merry did always say her accent was awfully alike the one sailors from Westeros possessed. And she could speak their language too, even more fluently than that of Braavosi and far better than High Valyrian which she only knew a little. She smiled at the ship’s captain.

“Why not? I can scrub the floors, maybe, or help to cook meals. It’s destined for King’s Landing, yes?”

“It is,” he responded as his eyes shined redder yet. “We’re sailing tomorrow, before sunrise. So? Are you coming as well?”

She thought of the dark-haired man’s laughing face and of how that image made her feel like home more than anything else she had experienced in Braavos. She thought about the wolf and its pack and about that bit of shining auburn hair she sometimes imagined she saw in her dreams.

“I’m going with you,” she decided. “And I’m bringing my sword as well, just so you know. Don’t try anything or I’ll stab you. You or anyone else.”

She could easily kill him if he attacks her. Of course she could. She’s killed men before. And if anything, the case of the apologetic blond only proved what a monster she actually was. So she bid the sailor goodbye, walking away to say farewell to the women at Happy Port. She would see if it’s the truth – if there truly is a new member of the brothel’s patron’s, enjoying his life with one of her friends. Either way, the people on Ardent Friend were going to see her yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: someone  
> Year: 303 AL  
> Time period: 3 moons  
> Characters: someone, The Crow, sailors, Sailor’s Wife, Merry  
> Reminder: none of the POV’s here are reliable. Just because they consider something true/right doesn’t mean it actually is.  
> Next chapter is Sansa’s. Also, a long one.


	3. Lady Bastard and Her Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the previous chapter: the memory loss Arya suffers from is not in any way connected to the House of Black and White. I feel like this might have not been clear enough.

_-Alayne Stone-_

_301 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

The Gates of the Moon were a solid stronghold, full of thick walls and minor courtyards. Certainly a place in which you could easily hide from the rest of the world, she decided. When it was on top of that covered in snow, Sansa couldn’t help but recall another, painfully similar castle, though far greater and more ancient.

 _‘And now in ruins’_ , she reminded herself, clutching the warm, woolen cloak she was wearing. ‘ _But no matter that._ _Rickon will have it rebuilt yet, just as it once was.’_ She couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

It was a refreshingly chilly morning, a definite sign of the upcoming great winter. When breaking fast, Alayne overheard Lady Myranda Royce, who had finally returned from Ninestars the evening before, claiming to be expecting a powerful blizzard by the end of the day, but so far there were no signs of it. Most possibly it was solely Randa’s wishful thinking: it was the day when Lady Anya Waynwood and a larger part of her household were expected to arrive and Lord Nestor’s daughter still seemed to hold a slight grudge against the cousin of her almost-betrothed.

Harry the Heir. He was coming as well, being after all the main reason for the whole ceremony.

Alayne was perfectly aware of just how important this evening was going to be. Her father had somehow managed to convince the proud Lady of Ironoaks that the betrothal was a prosperous idea, but nevertheless, the ultimate decision was likely to be made by the Young Falcon himself.

 _‘He might hate me. Maybe he’ll be repulsed by my low birth, or mayhap he’s found himself a lady love somewhere else, while I was stuck in the Gates, tending to a sickly little brat. But then, would he be_ _paying us such a visit?’_

Either way, she had to be a perfect lady the entire time of their stay. It was what Petyr had said to her a day earlier and what she agreed with wholeheartedly. Even Rickon was slightly pushed aside for the time being, advised to hide in the woods while the party remains close, something he was not content to accept.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll like what he sees,” assured her Myranda when seeing her face, as they were standing with Mya in the yard, watching Lord Nestor prepare the castle for the arrival of Lady Anya Waynwood and her people. “You’re certainly pretty enough and being a maiden on top of that should help as well. Harry Hardyng is not who you should be wary of, though.”

Mya and Alayne exchanged worried looks. Ever since Randa’s brother Albar disappeared into the mountains, their friend was in a foul mood. At first it was, of course, because of her fear for the man, but naught a moon ago he had been ransomed from the Sons of the Mist, one of the mountain clans, alive and almost perfectly well. And though the return of her only brother had brightened Myranda slightly, she was still fuming.

“How dare they say my father was left without an heir?” she complained whenever they were alone for a moment. “I’ve kept this household running for years and that’s how they repay me?”

Alayne never understood why would that trouble Randa. Her brother was back, was he not? And had he not been found, maybe her father could have gotten married again and fathered yet another son. But when she’d said so to Mya one day, the girl simply laughed.

“She’s not afraid of her House dying out, silly! She just wanted to be acknowledged as her brother’s heir presumptive. As someone worthy of that title.”

It was a peculiar thought that still followed Alayne a fortnight later. What would that make Sansa Stark? Was she Rickon’s heir? Or was that Tyrion Lannister? Both of those cases sounded rather awful, though one far more so than the other. Alayne could not doubt, however, that Myanda Royce would have indeed made a great Lady of the Gates. She glanced at her friend shouting orders at three of the cooks. If such a woman had not impressed Lady Anya, what chance did she have? Apart from her unfortunate birth, Alayne was never particularly skilled at managing the household. Sure, she knew what needed to be done by book, like every proper lady should. But whenever faced with the numbers, she hardly had the strength to make fast decisions.

Admittedly though, she’d never had a man die while bedding her. The thought made her blush angry red.

Mya took her hand and dragged both of her friends towards their chambers.

“I can’t stand to watch two you sulk in this snowstorm any longer,” she announced. “On top of that, the weather is getting colder and colder and I do not wish to freeze to death this young.”

As they were passing Lord Protector’s solar, Lothor Brune came out of the room, smiling at Mya as she passed him. He stopped Alayne.

“Your father’s been looking for you, my lady. I strongly recommend you go see him right now. He won’t like it if you make him wait.”

She suppressed a grimace. For the last moon or so it was becoming increasingly difficult to face Petyr, especially alone, without Mya’s quiet presence. She still could not help but remember Jeyne’s fate every time they talked.

_I bet she died._

Putting on a gentle smile, Sansa stepped into the chamber, closing the door behind her.

Lord Protector was sitting behind the table, looking down on an opened letter in his hands. He seemed to have barely noticed her entrance, but as she sat down on the other chair, he glanced at her with a knowing smile.

“You’re not nervous, aren’t you, my daughter?”

She shifted uncomfortably. Of course he knew. How could she ever think she can hide anything from him? Petyr read her thoughts like a favourite story.

“I simply thought of what you said a while ago… how Lady Anya might not be satisfied with simply paying for her debts. What shall we do if she finds me unsuitable?”

He chuckled slightly, motioning for her to come sit on his lap. She forced herself to do so, trying not to appear as tense as she actually was.

_‘Petyr will know, he’ll see my discontent and be angry. He’ll think I don’t love him.’_

Swallowing her fear, Alayne smiled at him sweetly, hoping the kiss she gave him did not feel different than any of the others.

 _‘If Rickon were here… he’d have Shaggydog bite Petyr’s head off_ ,’ she mused. She allowed that thought to brighten her face.

Lord Protector looked satisfied.

“Give a kiss like that to Harry and the betrothal will be bound to happen, no matter what that old hag says.”

Harry Hardyng… they said he was as gallant as he was handsome. And mayhap that was just what she and Rickon needed… her brother was still so little after all. She imagined a tall man with blonde hair (not gold though, but rather almost white, like that of Daemon Blackfyre who rose in rebellion for his beloved), who kissed her hand and promised to bring her home, to safety, to Winterfell.

Maybe he’d even love her.

*

Harry the Heir and Lady Anya Waynwood arrived shortly before nightfall, along with a host of over twenty people. Alayne watched them all as she stood in the castle’s yard, dressed in her nicest dress of yellow silk, shivering. The snow had stopped falling a few moments earlier, but it was still awfully cold. She suddenly wished for a warm northern dress of plain wool. At least she would have been able to move without trembling. Father’s orders were clear on the clothing, though. He said she looked dreamlike in what he picked for her.

Lord Nestor was helping Lady Waynwood of a horse, with Lord Protector standing right behind him. Just as she gathered up the courage to quietly ask, Myranda nudged her and discretely pointed to a man talking to the heir of Ironoaks and his younger brother.

“Pretty, inn’t he?” observed Myranda dispassionately. “Your father has gotten you a nice face to marry. You’ll look well matched. Pity. I really wished he had gotten grey plague or something of the sort.”

Sansa hesitated. Which one was she supposed to greet first? Harry, the one she was supposed to wed, or Lady Anya, the woman who truly mattered?

“My lady,” she curtsied, after approaching the Lady. “I am delighted to see you again.”

Anya Waynwood bore no love for Lord Protector or his rule, but with Alayne she was always blissfully sweet. Sansa remembered that the woman had been the one to stop Ser Lyn Corbray and late Lord Gilwood Hunter from teasing her so crudely not a year earlier.

“And I you, child.” Lady Anya gave her a thin smirk. “I can see your beauty has only grown since the last time we’ve talked. Harry will certainly love to get to know you.”

Alayne blushed at that. It was one thing for someone like Mya to say such things… Harry Hardyng’s aunt and patron was a whole new case. She smiled at the woman gratefully. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Petyr and Lord Nestor attentively watching her every move.

“It pleases me greatly to hear so, Lady Waynwood,” she claimed, doing everything she could think of to sound as highborn as it was possible. It would not do to remind everybody of her low birth. And…

“My lady.”

She turned on her heels.

_Pretty, inn’t he?_

He was quite handsome indeed, enough to make almost any girl swoon, with his dark blue eyes and a charming smile that showed the dimples Petyr had told her about. She felt her face go hot once more and almost forgot to curtsy.

“It is an honour to finally meet you, ser,” she sang, as he took and kissed her hand. ‘ _He is barely sixteen and already with a bastard daughter’_ , Alayne reminded herself. ‘ _Would’ve had two if the second one hadn’t have been a stillborn. And even without that, there is no guarantee he won’t be just like Joffrey_.’ Sansa, a stupid girl she had once been, was naive enough to fall for a handsome and somewhat charming prince and he had given her her father’s head. Alayne had to be smarter than that.

“I have heard what my cousin had said,” he confessed a moment later, as they were following Lady Anya and Lord Nestor to the Gates’ dining hall. “And if it’s true that your undeniable beauty is only growing, then I cannot wait to see you in two years or so.”

Alayne only smiled, glancing at her feet. What does he want? Is it the gold that Father can offer him in a dowry? But no; the Waynwoods might have been poorer than they seem, but Harry, as Robert’s heir, certainly didn’t have that problem. Was he simply looking for a pretty wife to impress his guests? But there were many beautiful ladies throughout Westeros that were not only good looking, but also of much more noble birth, so why would he taint his name by marrying a bastard?

 _‘He has not decided yet,’_ she reminded herself. _‘As far as you know he might find you insipid and unfit for a wife.’_

“And where is our young lord?” asked Lady Anya, as they reached the castle’s hall, where the welcoming feast and dances were to happen. “I was hoping you would lead us to him. Dear Robert has been feeling much better in the last couple of moons, you claimed in your letters, Baelish. If that’s so, why can’t he show up to our gathering?”

_‘Robert isn’t feeling better, and it is unlikely he will ever manage to again. Do they not know it yet?’_

“His lord’s moods are rather unpredictable, I’m afraid,” clarified Littlefinger, smiling his smile of a friend. The smile he so easily distributed to everyone in King’s Landing. “From my personal experience, it is unwise to wait with a meal for our liege, or you might find yourself sitting by the tables till dawn, hungry and staring at plates full of nourishment.”

They all sat down then and Alayne suppressed the feeling of panic at the sight of Mya all the way on the other side of the room. She had almost forgotten where was a place of a baseborn.

The feast itself was the most exquisite affair they’ve had in almost a year. With the upcoming winter food in the Vale was not overflowing, but this time Petyr Baelish decided to show just how much gold he could actually spend. She didn’t need to ask why.

Randa was there, sitting only one person away from her, but Alayne did not dare talk to her. Her father was watching, she knew, and now that everyone had finished their meals, it was time to show him her gratitude for all the things he’d done for her. It would’ve been an impossibility to refuse him. She turned to the knight.

“Ser Harry,” she inquired, touching his arm. “I was wondering whether you would like to see your cousin Robert. My father might not like to think about it, or say the words, but the truth is our lord has been unwell lately and thus could not show in the yard to greet you.”

He agreed to it and so did Lady Anya, rising even more suspicions in Alayne’s head. ‘ _Do they think we are to blame for Sweetrobin’s state? Is that the reason for their arrival? We did nothing, nothing at all, it’s not our fault he’s weak and sickly.’_

Robert Arryn greeted them as warmly as any other of his guests, though the presence of Petyr appeared to be enough to stop him from throwing anything. Alayne thanked the gods at least for that blessing. It would really be inconvenient if the little lord decided that was the day to adorn people with sweetsleep or, worse, contents of his chamber pot.

“How are you doing today, my lord?” she asked, very aware of both Lady Anya and Harry watching her every move. She couldn’t ruin it. Father would be so mad.

“I feel strong. As strong as the Winged Knight.”

She smiled sweetly.

“I’m sure you are, my lord. Will you greet the guests? They are surely tired after the journey, but decided to see you nevertheless.”

Robert looked at Lady Waynwood and Ser Harry, unimpressed.

“No,” he decided. “They are boring. Lady Anya never tells me any stories. Send them all away and read to me the story about the slaying of Griffin King.”

“Sweetrobin, that is not –“ she stopped, seeing Harry grin at the boy. And then, briefly, at her.

“We shall not bother you then, my lord,” he said, standing beside Alayne. “Let us take this lovely lady away from you, though; there is to be dancing soon and it would’ve been pointless without her at it.”

She thought she might just love the Young Falcon simply for those words alone.

*

The dances they had that night, and several nights after that, were all just as splendid as the welcoming feast. Harry danced with her almost every time and he often likened her to ladies and princesses from stories she herself had heard so many times, back when she was younger and sillier. They loved the same legends, she noted, found the same events absolutely thrilling.

“Is it hard, my lady, taking care of my young cousin?” he asked her after yet another song had ended and they were heading towards the tables to grasp some breath. “I could see he is certainly… challenging. It probably wouldn’t do him any good had he been raised with Bronze Yohn at Runestone, as some of the lords suggested. A boy like that…”

“He can be lovely, sometimes,” she lied quickly. “And it might be exhausting, but I’m willing to do my duty to the Vale. His lordship is but a child, after all, and as unfortunate as that is, I might be the closest thing to a mother he currently has left.”

Something alike astonishment appeared in his eyes at that. Alayne wondered if he knew anything of such tasks as hers or at least recognized how hard they really were. Knights usually understood little of them, but Harry’s face seemed to be saying otherwise.

The music had started once again, as a small ugly man with a pointy nose and a beautiful voice started singing “The Winter Maid”. It was a northern song, she remembered, and one of the sad ones at that. Sansa could remember all too well the last time she had heard it. She suddenly felt grateful they were sitting down.

Harry didn’t notice her unease. Somehow though, he still managed to make her feel better.

“I must admit, Lady Alayne, I now understand what my aunt had meant all those moons ago, when saying you seem to be more graceful than any of the nobly born maidens she’s ever met. Not many girls would be so full of dedication to devout themselves to such a cause. Which actually proves you to be of a much purer mind.”

Sansa smiled at the man brightly, feeling a wave of relief flowing through her. Suddenly, she knew what it was that he wanted from her. And that, oh that she would give him so readily.

It took her a long time to understand that it was far more complicated than what the songs had made it to be.

*

Alayne shivered seeing yet another message in Littlefinger’s hands. She couldn’t remember the last time a letter brought them any cheerful news. And, as it soon turned out, this one was no exception.

“An illness took Lord Horton Redfort, as it had been expected for half a year now,” Petyr Baelish read it to her aloud, with a slight irritation in his voice. “I must go to his funeral and so does your precious Harry, if he wants to gain respect among his future people. With us will come several of the lords and knights, including ser Lothor Brune and ser Shadrich. Byron and Morgarth will stay with you, and so will Nestor Royce.”

Lord Father took her hands in his.

“How is it going, my sweet?”

He could only mean one thing. She hesitated before giving him the answer he most likely wanted to hear.

“I… I think he fancies me, father. He always smiles when I talk to him and Myranda says he’s complimented me in front of Lady Anya more than once.”

“And you?” Petyr’s eyes bore into hers. “How do you feel about him?”

Alayne blinked, startled. How was _she_ feeling about her betrothed? He never asked her that... And for some reason she felt like it was the most dangerous of grounds.

“He’s very handsome, and perfectly courteous as well,” she admitted, trying to predict the safest answer. Littlefinger’s face gave nothing away, but she had a sinking feeling that if she were to try to withdraw her hands, he wouldn’t let her do so. “It seems to me like he is a good man at heart too, something any maiden dreams of. A true knight. I can’t possibly think of a better husband for myself, even if he were a bastard like me.”

It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, she could see that then. A long time passed, however, before she finally understood why.

“A bastard like you,” her father echoed slowly, instantly making her feel much, much smaller. “But, my dear, you are not a baseborn in truth. Not that girl Harry thinks he loves. Even if those feelings of his are real, the lady he has them for is not. And, therefore, wouldn’t that make everything about your betrothal just a one big lie?”

Sansa stared at him, trying to suppress the shock and anger that had started to build in her at those words. Why would he say them? Did he not think Harry the Heir was able to fall in love with what she actually was? Was it that impossible?

 _‘He sent Jeyne to her death,’_ she reminded herself. _‘He doesn’t know what love and songs really are. Harry does, though.’_

Alayne could see herself being married to the gallant knight. She could see herself bearing his children and learning to love him even more.

She found it challenging, however, to imagine still loving her poisonous father in the years that were to come.

*

„Alayne, may I speak with you? Now, if you do not mind.” Lady Anya’s face was graced with a warm smile, but something in her tone made Alayne flinch. She glanced at Myranda, looking for help, but the older girl only shrugged, appearing as uneasy as Sansa felt. Not having any other choices, she bid her friends farewell and rushed to join Anya Waynwood on her walk.

“Has something happened, my lady?” she inquired, when the woman stayed silent. “If that’s so, I can talk to my father when he comes back, or Lady Myranda and-“

“Harry has decided.” Lady Waynwood’s voice was dry and reserved and Sansa’s heart stopped for a second. “He came to me last night, announcing his undying love for you and saying he wishes to marry ‘Lady Alayne and her only’, despite the fact that you are actually no lady at all.”

She felt dizzy. Harry the Heir loved her, truly loved her. And he wanted to marry his ‘Lady Alayne’, despite her low birth. He didn’t care who her mother was. Alayne wanted to dance.

“My lady, it is so sweet to hear such news! The gods are good.”

Lady Anya pursed her lips and Alayne’s smile froze on her face. ‘ _She doesn’t approve of this_ ,’ she realized. ‘ _And I thought she liked me. She said I was ‘gently bred’ and called me beautiful. Myranda was right.’_

“You do not want me as his wife.”

The old woman sighed and touched her cheek.

“Do not misunderstand me, my dear. You are a sweet sight to any eyes, even the most picky ones. And I do trust you to be as ladylike as it is possible. Lady Alayne is a kind and lovely girl, even if of horribly low birth. But a bastard daughter of Littlefinger? No, that one I would not trust. And Harry… he is a good boy, still too young and inexperienced to know what is best for him, but old enough to make his own decisions. He already told me a hundred times how he completely fell for one girl or another… they were all ‘the one’, even the most lowborn servant maidens and tavern wenches. And he barely remembered them a fortnight later. I had expected this time not to be any different, even if you are more beautiful than any of them. It isn’t, though. And my ward, Harry the Heir, is going to marry a Stone. You do realize what responsibility that puts you in? Who you’re going to become?”

 _‘She means Lady of the Vale’_ , thought Alayne, as she stared at Lady Anya’s old, tired face. ‘ _Father might try to hide it, but everyone knows Robert is going to die soon, even if none of them dare say it out loud. And they don’t want a bastard – especially his bastard – to be their lady_.’

But Harry didn’t care, she knew. He wanted to marry her and it was going to happen, no matter how many Lords Declarant disliked the idea.

Father will be so proud.

*

“I told you those people are no good,” commented Randa. Mya nodded absentmindedly.

They were sitting in Alayne’s chamber, discussing her conversation with Lady Anya. Since her father and Ser Harry had gone away to pay their respects to the deceased Lord Horton Redfort, the two girls were Alayne’s first people to confide to. So far, though, she was not overwhelmed by the number of their advices. Mya kept wondering whether her once beloved Mytchel is very heartbroken about his father’s recent passing and Myranda couldn’t stop herself from pointing out how she was right about Lady Anya the entire time.

“She isn’t a bad person,” pointed out Alayne quickly. “Who wouldn’t be concerned about such a thing? A natural born married to a – a lord like him.“ She stopped herself just in time. People might know, but it would not do to say it out loud. She smiled at her friends apologetically. “Excuse me please. I think I shall go pray in the sept.”

“They’re right,” exclaimed her brother the moment she finished her story. “That old lady is stupid if she thinks you’re not good enough for that bonehead. His face looks like a squashed pie.”

“Rickon!” she yelled in horror. How could he say something like that about her betrothed? It was certainly not true. “He is very handsome, even Myranda says so. And he loves me. Can you not condone me this happiness?”

There was nothing Alayne wanted more than to marry Harry the Heir. She would become Lady of the Vale by the time the winter was over. So many ladies would wish they were in her place! Of course she understood how incredible of an opportunity it was for a bastard girl.

It was not, however, something Sansa Stark could desire.

While she did not lie about Harry’s looks or affections, she certainly did when it came to her own happiness. Oh, Harry was perfectly courteous, no doubt. His manners were impeccable and when he smiled both Alayne and Sansa felt fluttering in their stomachs. Everything seemed simply wonderful. And Sansa was not a stranger to that feeling. Had she not promised herself never to be mislead again? Had she not been tired of all the betrothals?

She took a deep breath.

“We need him,” explained Sansa, taking her brother’s hand. It wasn’t to convince herself to the cause, it wasn’t. “If I am his wife, that means we’re almost safe. Almost in Winterfell. Harry can save us. He can fight for us, and gather an army too. He can lead it.”

It would truly be splendid to have someone willing to start a war in your name.

“Or he can treat you awful and tell that bad man who we are.”

She knew how true those words were much better that him. But if there was anything in the world worth that risk, it was their safety. It was Winterfell.

“Then you will protect me.”

*

She knew just how much they despised the idea.

Lords Declarant bore no love for Petyr Baelish and it did not take her a long time to realize they spared none for little Robert either. They simply wanted him as their puppet.

Everyone did.

Robert had to be controlled, though, she reminded herself. He was a stupid, arrogant, reckless boy who needed people making decisions for him. But the case of Alayne Stone… no, that was entirely different. The things she dreamed of were important. And Lords Declarant were wrong.

They thought her a dumb little girl. She’d been that once, in truth. But no longer. No, she saw everything. The glances they threw at her father, the sudden friendship between Albar Royce and Lady Waynwood’s younger son, Lady Anya herself staying at the Gates, sending her children to the funeral instead. Father had thought he’d convinced them to bend the knee and, at the time, so did she.

They should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. Still, it were Mya’s words whispered in Alayne’s ear that made her see the whole truth.

“They are planning on overthrowing him. They will not have him as their liege much longer. They were never going to let him stay.”

Sansa didn’t know why Mya would tell her such things – yes, they were friends, but so were Mya and Myranda. For some reason, though, she decided not to ask. She needed to do something. Anything. If Petyr were to be dead, what would become of her?

“I heard from Father right before his departure that he has managed to persuade the queen to send him more money and men,” she mentioned casually one evening, not lifting her eyes from the snowflake she was embroidering, when only Myranda could hear her. The woman did not ask for details, but Alayne knew she was paying attention.

And so, the chain of whispers in the dark begun.

In later years, when Sansa tried to point out the moment everything started, this one and the news of Jeyne’s death always seemed equally crucial.

*

It was not yet a senninght after Littlefinger and Harry’s return when another letter came, sealed with a royal stamp. And when it was delivered to its recipient, Alayne Stone felt colder than she had in a very long time.

Harry Hardyng was being summoned to King’s Landing by queen regent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know their relationship seemed rushed, but it's supposed to be.  
> POV: Alayne Stone  
> Year: 301 AL  
> Time period: 3 moons  
> Characters: Alayne Stone, Mya Stone, Petyr Baelish, Myranda Royce, Harry Hardyng, Anya Waynwood, Nestor Royce, Rickon Stark, Lothor Brune


	4. Nan

-someone-

_303 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

She woke up suddenly, instinctively reaching for a fruit knife she kept hidden in her sleeve at all times. Her dream must’ve been horrible, most likely yet again containing the white haired man and the unheard words he always spoke.

The woman lying on her right mumbled something in her sleep and turned to the other side. Above her was a small porthole through which shone the dim, grey light of a late winter morning. It was going to be another calm, though frosty day, she mused. Almost the entirety of their journey had been peaceful, even boring at times. Still, she could hardly say she minded. Boredom was certainly not the worst thing that could have happened to her on board and it was during those laziest days when she got to know the ship’s colourful sailors, played cyvasse with captain’s countless, loud children and helped the old, peevish cook prepare the meals. Despite the worries she had when still in Braavos, no one had bothered her, or even hinted at anything of such nature and she was close to tempted to stay on the ship upon its making it to King’s Landing. But that would never be. The people on Ardent Friend didn’t need her, not like she hoped _he_ did.

They were supposed to reach Westeros soon enough. And then, then she would be free to search. Not that she had any idea where to start looking.

Shouts sounded and, putting on a tunic and a pair of breeches, she left the cabin and headed to the ship’s deck.

Her calculations were right; the land was spotted and already getting near. She could see a large castle made of greyish red stone with several massive towers reaching to the sky. The image became far less impressive though, as the ship got closer to the shore and a strong stench of the city reached their nostrils. King’s Landing smelt of shit and sweat, of corpses and hunger, of hundreds of fireplaces that warmed it and of melted steel being forged into swords. That caused a great deal of noise which she was soon enough able to hear, while still on the sea. As they reached the river’s mouth, she got a good look at the keep. It was well prepared for battle, full of thick ramparts, portcullises and spikes, many of which were adorned with partially rotten heads, likely the source of most of the smell.

The Ardent Friend reached its destination by a giant gate, where another hundred ships were anchored. The stench transformed into a one of unwashed bodies and spoiled fish. She spotted a long row of booths on her left, surrounded with people selling, buying and stealing the fish, along with many more suspicious, though certainly cheaper items. When she was helping the captain’s eldest daughter with the ropes, she noticed a man and a woman carrying a basket that appeared to be full of dead pigeons.

“Last eatable birds in the city,” the woman yelled, waving one of them over her head. “Fat and fresh and full o’ meat!”

The girl beside her grimaced at the sight.

“It’s just horrid,” she muttered. “I pleaded with my father to go to the Tor instead, or maybe even the Old Town, but he changed his mind a day before we set out and nothing could convince him to change it back. And they never have any nice food in King’s Landing, especially those days. Last year we actually had to settle for their bowls of brown, from Flea Bottom. One of the worst meals I’ve ever had to force down my throat. Only the meat in them was fine, the few bites that we got.”

“The hungry folk may be ready to pay whatever prices he sets. Your father might become a rich man yet.”

She decided she really shouldn’t tell her friend what it meant when the meat was so nice in a place like King’s Landing.

*

She parted with the Ardent Friend’s crew later that day, leaving them at the Fish Market, where they were trying to find some decent nourishment for themselves.

As she approached the Mud Gate, as she heard people call the gate by the harbour, it hit her how damaged it seemed from a shorter distance. A few more years and it was going to collapse on its own, without further help from a man. There were a lot of crows surrounding it; she wondered why none of the people ever tried to catch and sell some of those, but they all seemed to avoid the birds completely.

She crossed the Fishmonger’s Square and hesitated at the sight of two main roads.

King’s Landing. She was in Westeros, just as planned. And she even managed to vaguely remember it from those years before, recognizing not only the horribly hostile castle but also where the area called the Hook must’ve been.

But that city was not her home any more than Braavos and Purple Harbor had been. It smelled and sounded wrong and the people spoke in a much softer way than she did. It wasn’t right, none of it. _He_ certainly wouldn’t live in a place like this.

One of the crows landed at the feet of a small boy playing in the mud. When she glanced at that child’s face, though, she only saw dark brown hair and a solemn face, so alike her own.

She decided to take the road that lead to a hill with a huge sept on its top. Great Sept of Baelor, she reminded herself, was the temple’s name. Westerosi didn’t like to share, the Sailor’s Wife always told her, so there could only be one faith in all of their south, otherwise wars happened. It was a silly place, with silly people establishing its rules.

People of Braavos did not have much good to say when it came to the Seven Kingdoms and she could certainly see why.

The road she was walking suddenly got much cleaner and the buildings became nicer. She heard the forges before she could see them and a thought crept into her mind. If a smith can make a sword, can he also recognise where a blade is from? She glanced at her main weapon. It was properly made, a definite sign of being created by someone quite skilled, maybe even experienced in the trade.

Of all the shops one stood out in particular, a few stores high, with a beautiful set of double doors made of black and white wood. She touched the white parts as soon as she knew that no one was around. It was surprisingly warm.

_‘Heart tree. Like the one in Braavos. And the one at home as well.’_

A sound of heavy footsteps came from the inside and, before she could react, the door was opened, revealing a tall man in white, expensive-looking armour and with a short red beard, who looked down at her as if she were an especially unsavoury bowl of brown. Behind him were two other men, both wearing gold cloaks on their shoulders and with hostile eyes and hands on the hilts of their swords.

“Are you one of the Spider’s birds?” asked her the one who opened the door, frowning. “Were you here to spy on the queen regent’s orders?”

She could not answer him. This man was so familiar, so awfully familiar and for a moment she couldn’t say if she’d loved or hated him once, but then he stepped a bit closer and she couldn’t mistake the panic that overcame her for anything else.

One of the other men cleared his throat.

“Ser Meryn, they say the Spider’s children are those without tongues.”

Meryn Trant. He was on the list, she remembered. A list of people who deserved to be hated, list she’d once ignored and only wished to continue doing so.

“That girl is much too old to be of that sort, though, most likely gathering knowledge for that Dornish snake.” added the second one, glancing at her in a way she certainly did not like. His companion shot him an unfavourable grimace with the small part of his face that wasn’t covered in after-effects of greyscale, apparently sharing her opinion of the fellow guard.

“We’ll see, then.” The one they called Ser Meryn reached for her face with a gauntlet-wearing hand, and she reacted without thinking. The Kingsguard was big and armoured, slow for a knight too, and she was anything but. The narrow blade buried deep in his armpit first, and went through the neck right after, when the man doubled over in pain. And then it was all over, the sword bloody, guards shouting and her running for her life, trying to find herself some cover. She ran down the hill, passing the Great Sept of Baelor, bumped into several people in yet another square and entered the Street of Sisters without slowing down.

She looked down at her hands. They were both heavily stained with blood, just like her face must have been. She’d stabbed that man twice. She felt sick just thinking of it.

The image of that white haired man dying appeared in her head. It happened again. Ser Meryn might’ve just wanted to check if she had a tongue. Maybe he would’ve left her alone after that, but she’d panicked and killed him before realizing what’s happening.

Would anybody want someone like her to be a part of their family?

Another hill started and she slowed her pace down to a walk. She needed to think. White armours belonged to the Kingsguard, which meant many people were most likely already looking for her all over the city. The sooner she got outside the walls, the better.

And where would she go? The question almost made her stop. Her home might not have been in King’s Landing, but Westeros was certainly gigantic. She could search for years upon years and never get close to finding anything of value.

She thought of the weirwood she saw at the forge’s door. It was such a new fashion, to have it grow everywhere, but that could not be the case with her. She knew it before. The heart tree was a clue and the closest ones she knew of that didn’t appear in the last two or three years were in the Riverlands.

The sword was still bloody. She wiped it clean with the inside of her tunic and dragged a sleeve across her face. It was going to have to be enough.

It felt especially wrong to steal a horse from the stables at the Old Gate, but it was an incredible opportunity to have them all unguarded even if only for a short amount of time and she truly needed one too. Remembering the look on the second gold cloak’s face, she mounted the steed that looked the fastest and snuck out ignoring the increasing shouts behind her. She was free, her mind was blissfully clear and when there was a well rested mare under her saddle, there were few who could dream of catching up any time soon.

She didn’t remember ever riding a horse, but as it turned out, it came to her naturally and gave her more joy than anything else. She almost forgot of how Ser Meryn lost his life that day due to her blade. She almost forgot about the white haired boy’s unheard words.

All that mattered was that the sun was setting of her left.

*

Stoney Sept was a small town in a middle of nowhere, with half of the houses abandoned by its owners, only to be filled with soldiers who used the place as a stop before continuing to march their way. She’d seen it happen most everywhere in Westeros. It was not rare for them to wait around for moons, tormenting the smallfolk and consuming the few supplies their victims had.

A market square was what drew her attention. She’d seen a lot of those in the last fortnight, but none of them made her feel anything in particular.

 _‘I’ve been here before,’_ she thought, taking in the snowdrifts, stains of dried blood and a small fountain in the middle of it all that someone had smashed into pieces already a while ago. The few people she saw were mostly armed men, all of them heading to the biggest building around the market, a three stores high inn pained dirty white. Above its main door hung a large sign crooked by the winter’s winds or maybe the war alone. She recognised the fruit on it to be a faded peach.

Unlike all the others, Peach was a house filled with lights and loud voices. Somebody drunkenly yelled the words to “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”, a song all westerosi sailors would sing in Ragman's Harbor whenever they got well into their cups.

She hadn’t slept on anything that wasn’t frozen ground since the day she left “Ardent Friend”. She had to sell her precious horse with all its equipment two towns away too, needing nourishment far more than the mare. Still, the loss was awfully painful.

It was only after ordering ale and retreating with the jug to one of the darker corners of the room that she’d realized the inn was actually a brothel as well. It was dumb of her, she decided, not to see the truth sooner. After all, she had spent most of her time in Braavos with Merry and her girls at Happy Port. The exact moment the thought entered her mind, however, something else caught her eye.

There was a short, very beautiful girl with golden hair sitting by the counter with a group of quite drunk soldiers, obviously at work. And she looked very familiar.

“Are you here to take her back?”

She looked up. An older woman with big teats and fiery red hair was standing by her seat, looking rather unwelcoming.

“Golden Lanna told me who you are the moment you walked in, girl. She said her mother was fond of you. Said you’re a girl with a knife, or a sword now I guess, who often stopped by the place she used to work at. ‘S what she’s telling me. So be true child, have you come to bring her home? My prettiest peach?”

“Not at all,” she denied, shaking her head. The unfriendly way the woman was looking at her made her more and more uncomfortable. She struggled not to show it. “This is but a chance meeting. I did not expect to see Lanna ever again. And I suppose neither does the Sailor's Wife.”

She closed her mouth a bit too late. It was always unpleasant to remember the day the courtesan and her daughter parted in tears for a reason she never got to know.

This was a place she’s been to before, when she had remembered. She had to use that to her advantage. After all, as Blushing Bethany always said, there was no better place to gain vital information than a one where people went to in hopes of being made happy. And Westeros didn’t seem to have that many happy places anymore.

“I want to work here,” she blurted out to the woman in front of her. “I’m familiars with brothels. There’s always some trouble happening, always an uncertain client. And right now, you’ve got plenty of ‘em. I’ve got a sword, and a sharp one at that. It could be working for you. Agree and I’ll stick with a pointy end whoever bothers you and your girls.”

She supposed she would have done that anyway, but it was probably better not to say so out loud.

The shock in the whore’s eyes was clearly visible and she couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It was true, what she’d said; there was an awful lot of soldiers in the area who could easily cause trouble. One more sword protecting the brothel was certainly a smart idea. It would be just like in Braavos too, with Blushing Bethany, Sailors Wife and all the others.

“Fine,” the woman said finally. “Lanna says you know your way around a blade and I believe her. But don’t expect much. You can share a cot with Helly and get the same meals as my girls do and you will always be on watch. The slightest misbehaviour of a client and you’re there, do you understand? You’re right: these aren’t peaceful times. One of mine was butchered a couple of moons past and none of those villagers that so often visit even raised a finger to help her. I could use a person like you. ”

She nodded. Yes. Oh, it was so easy. She was going to know everything she’d forgot and soon.

The whore pointed to the stairs behind her.

“Go upstairs and to the end of the corridor, then turn left. Helly is working now, but you should find Bella there. Tell her I sent you and she’ll explain everything.” She turned to leave, but then glanced back, for the first time looking rather pleasant. “My name is Tansy. Everything around here is mine, as you must’ve already guessed. So, I’m thinking, it would be good to know the name of the person guarding all that I own. Golden Lanna somehow couldn’t give me your name, though.”

A name. How could she be so dumb? How could she forget such an obvious thing? She panicked. The courtesans of Happy Port just called her girl, but she couldn’t give Tansy that, and nobody at “Ardent Friend” had ever come up with anything better either. What was she supposed to say?

“Nan,” she heard herself say, and it was as if it was someone else moving her lips. “My name is Nan. Short for Nymeria, like that Queen of Rhoynar.”

It wasn’t the name she was looking for, she thought to herself as she started for the stairs. But, somehow, it still made her feel at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: someone  
> Year: 303 AL  
> Time period: 1 moon  
> Characters: someone, The Crow, ser Meryn Trant, golcloaks, Tansy, Lanna, soldiers


	5. The Humblest Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. I’m currently sick, uni is a nightmare and the Christmas edition of family drama just appeared in my household which is always way more time consuming than I would’ve liked. But, hey, here’s the next chapter.

_-Alayne Stone-_

_302 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

Ser Harry Hardyng left for King’s Landing four days after receiving the message ordering him to appear at the court. With him also left ser Donnel Waynwood, Lady Anya’s second son, returning to his duties as the Knight of the Gate. He was an amicable, dutiful man and she regretted his absence almost as much as that of her betrothed, even if his squire had been a Frey. Ser Donnel, however, was not the one destined to face Cersei Lannister and her questions, whatever the queen wanted.

“I would not worry about it too much,” told her Petyr, when she confessed to being uneasy with the situation. “Young Hardyng doesn’t know who you are and most likely does not suspect anything either. As handsome as he is, I certainly wouldn’t call your husband to be exceptionally perceptive.”

He really shouldn’t offend Ser Harry like that, Sansa mused, clenching her hands into fists on her lap. She might not have fancied herself in love with her betrothed as much as Alayne did, but she certainly liked him enough to notice that he was in fact a good man, if little inexperienced with the world. She had been that way once too, after all.

Their parting had been almost tearful on her part. Harry took her hands into his and she had to remind herself that it was him holding them, not Petyr Baelish, to stop that unpleasant feeling in her tummy.

“It will be sweeter than ever to return here knowing what awaits me,” he said and she would’ve loved these words once, she would. He always had so many beautiful ones to spare her. She remembered Sandor Clegane’s words, from a long time ago. _Some septa taught you well._ But knights did not have septas. Ladies like Sansa of House Stark did.

“I shall hope to see your horse from the windows of my chamber, returning.”

He kissed her then and it felt nothing like when Littlefinger did, though it was only after a while when she understood why.

That evening she found Mya in their chamber, staring at the last mockingbird she ever embroidered, the day before finding out about Jeyne’s death all those moons ago.

“It’s quite beautiful,” the older girl said, touching the feathers. “Though I suppose you ought to start sewing falcons now.”

“I would seem so.” Alayne didn’t want to dwell on the subject. For some reason talking about her betrothal to Harry with Mya of all people had lately become awkward, more than she would have been willing to admit.

She sat next to her friend on the bed. A falcon. She was going to be married yet again. Sansa Hardyng. Or was it Alayne? After escaping King’s Landing her name was changed just like her hair were, but in reality she had been Sansa Stark yet again, no longer a Lannister, hadn’t she? But with Harry... she was to be married. Truly married, to a man who wanted to have her for a wife. Who wanted her to bear him sons, maybe even daughters. That, at least, was sweet to remember. That one little thing. She was to be married for love.

 _‘Only not yours_ ,’ reminded her a voice in her head. Sansa wanted to cry.

She turned to Mya Stone.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

She felt her friend’s eyes on her.

“Of course you can. I... I care about you, Alayne, you know that.”

Sansa took a deep breath, folding hands on her lap. Lady Catelyn used to do that, she remembered with a twinge of pain in her chest. She breathed in and out yet again, trying to calm down.

“It is not right of me to marry Ser Harrold. The gods will not approve of it. I have a husband already.”

Mya jumped up on the bed, startled.

“Alayne! Does your father know?”

Sansa almost laughed. How was it possible that people still asked that question?

“Of course he does. There aren’t many things he _isn’t_ aware of.”

She couldn’t help but notice her friend’s unease at those words.

“It happened shortly before our arrival to the Vale of Arryn. I do not know where he is now. Might be he died while I was still in the Eyrie.”

The other girl sat back down, taking a lock of Alayne’s dark hair and wrapping it around her finger.

“Did you love him?” Mya’s voice was hollow and she wouldn’t meet her eye.

“No,” Sansa admitted. “I did not want to marry him, not even a little bit. But he wasn’t the worst of them. He said he wouldn’t bed me as long as I didn’t want it. And I never did.”

She thought of Joffrey and his smirk. _His lips were like worms._ No, as much as she despised being married to Tyrion, he had not been the monster people always expected him to be. He had not been his nephew.

And Harry wasn’t either of them. She could be his wife.

It would be lovely to become a Stark once again too, if only for a moment.

*

Lord Yohn Royce and his men arrived half a moon later and without announcement. Still, Alayne couldn’t help but notice how neither his cousin Nestor, nor Lady Anya appeared to be surprised to see him. Petyr, though, certainly did. She had gotten to know him well enough to recognise his unrest then.

Mya was right. They were intending to get rid of the current Lord Protector. She had thought they’d forgotten of their plans to take Sweetrobin back, but Lords Declarant had long memories. Obviously, her father suspected the same; the numbers of Littlefinger’s household were increasing rapidly. Petyr Baelish had taken almost fifty sellswords under his wing and it was said he was trying to make amends with the Mountain Clans, but would any of it matter when faced with the strength of all the other lords in the Vale? Alayne was no longer stupid enough to believe so.

More than once, she caught Lord Yohn staring at her from afar.

“Do you think Lord Yohn will stay here for a longer while?” she asked Mya one day, as they were breaking fast. The food during their most recent guest’s stay had not been nearly as good as during Harry’s. It made Alayne miss her betrothed even more.

“Probably,” answered her friend, lowering her voice to a whisper. These days, as much as it pained Sansa to realize, even Myranda was to be suspected of treason. “But will he do anything... it might just be an innocent visit.”

They both knew that to be a lie.

*

Ser Harry returned to her only two months after his departure, atop of a different, swifter mare, jumping down when the animal was still trotting. She ran down to greet him at once, leaving Mya and Myranda in her bedchambers, thanking the gods that it was the day she chose to put more attention to her hair and clothing. She almost stopped when entering the yard, not sure if it would be appropriate to appear so enthusiastic, before remembering. He wished for a lady love. And so, lady love he shall have. And she run into his arms.

“I have waited so long!” she exclaimed as he lifted her in the air, grinning.

She hadn’t. It didn’t matter though. They just had to get to know each other and next time she was going to find his absence unbearable. She knew it.

“What did the queen want?”

He laughed, setting her down on the ground and pressing a kiss to the knuckles of her right hand.

“It was political matters only, my lady. Bored me to death, I’m afraid. Nothing that could concern a sweet little thing like you.”

He turned to greet his cousins then, and later Littlefinger and Lord Nestor, but Sansa did not move from where he’d left her, her eyes wide open. Just political matters. _Nothing that could concern a sweet little thing like you._ She wasn’t... she –

She wanted to cry.

Oh, how could she have been so, so stupid yet again?

_Sweet little thing. Silly, naive girl, who should’ve learned a long time ago but was much too dull for it._

Alayne glanced at the group of people, meeting her father’s gaze. He at least knew she wasn’t that anymore. Only Petyr, of all people.

It hurt to think how much more time she will have to spend under his wing after all. It hurt almost as much as her betrothed’s betrayal.

*

“Tell me, my dear, are you surprised by his words?”

“I am,” she admitted. She hated admitting things to Lord Protector. It reminded her how much he knew about her.

He looked at her as if she’d been no more that a child, still playing come-into-my-castle with Jeyne and Beth.

Jeyne. _I bet she died._ And she didn’t even know what happened to poor little Beth.

“Alayne, you can’t possibly expect young, inexperienced boys turned knights to ever see more to you than beauty. It shines too bright, I’m afraid.”

What is a lady love but a fair maiden willing to do her duty? It was all her fault.

“He won’t even tell me why Cersei summoned him before her,” Alayne complained before she could stop herself. “I tried to ask in a more subtle manner later, when we were breaking fast, but he did not bend, as if astonished that I would ever care to know. How can I expect him to lead an army and win a kingdom for me if he is unwilling to answer a simple question? How can I even think of him as my knight?”

Lord Father smiled at her with _that_ smile.

“Oh, but my sweet daughter. Have I not taught you anything? Convince him.”

Those words followed her long after she went to sleep, discarding the falcon she barely started to embroider and clinging to an already asleep Mya for warmth.

_Convince him that those are the things he wants._

Did she ever really have a choice?

*

Shaggydog welcomed her with a short whine that sounded almost friendly. He and Rickon were sitting in their usual spot, helping themselves to a greasy meal she had nothing to do with. She averted her eyes when the boy started gnawing on a bone. Is that how a king acts? And who will follow him if keeps behaving such way?

Nobody. She knew that without a doubt. They would try to break him instead. I scared her more than anything else.

“Rickon,” she called to him, sitting down on a rock nearby and trying to ignore its lack of warmth. “I think... I think it is time you told me that story. Remember? The one you promised me when we first saw each other here, over a year ago.”

He nodded, his mouth full, lips still smeared with fat.

“’Ow I escaped.”

“Yes. That one exactly. Tell me all of it.”

“It was Osha’s fault,” he told her, discarding the bone and coming to sit by her feet. “She didn’t like castles and kneelers so we went to Skagos, to live with horned goats. They were funny at first and made those strange noises. Shaggy didn’t like them, though. This man took us in after a while. M’lord Stane ‘s what Osha always called him. He said one day that there’s a smuggler that’s coming to take me home. But I knew he was lying ‘coz bad people burned our home, so it wasn’t there anymore. And when I told him that, he didn’t answer. Only that smuggler with short fingers did. Said that I’m not really going home, only to some other lord’s castle and I must learn to behave and one day I’ll be a lord too, just like them, with my own fortress and people. And I told him I don’t want to. But he was nice, so Bran decided I can travel with him for a while. We arrived at that other lord’s town and he was fat as a barrel and told me that I’m his liege and the smuggler smiled and nodded and then left. And after that I decided I don’t want to stay either. Bran told me where you are, so we left. Me and Shaggy. To find you, like we were supposed to.”

He’d grown, she realized, feeling a lump form in her throat. Rickon had always been a baby in her eyes. Everyone had perceived him that way back in Winterfell. Now, however, he was a king. She wondered if he’d ever killed a man. I would not have been so astonishing to hear so anymore.

“What happened to Osha?” she asked. “No, do not mind that. Who was Osha? You refer to her sometimes, always as if she was dear to you. I have no memory, however, of such person working in Winterfell.”

Admittedly though, she was never as close with their people as Arya or even Robb were.

“She was from the North,” he explained. “The real North, not our lands. Robb brought her to work in the kitchens after you left.”

A wildling woman. She should have known her brother was not raised by the likes of Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin. But mayhap that was for the best.

She imagined little Tommen on the throne. They were all using him, she knew, Lannisters and Tyrells alike. Sansa could not allow the same thing to happen with her brother. And now it seemed more clear than ever that he would not permit such things either.

And Bran? Her sweetest brother, what had happened to him?

*

She was sewing a new, warmer tunic for Rickon, when Mya flew into their chamber with a panicked look on her face. Sansa quickly showed the cloth under the blankets, but the other girl did not seem to notice.

“We need to go!” she yelled, grabbing Alayne’s arm and attempting to drag her towards the door. “Now! Oh, come on, hurry!”

“Why?” asked Sansa, finally making the first couple of steps. “What’s happened? Did someone – “

Her blood froze. What if Harry told Cersei about her, maybe even without realizing how crucial was the information he possessed? The queen would have no mercy for Sansa Stark, that was certain. Her hands begun to shake.

Mya stopped half-step, almost causing Alayne to bump into her.

“It’s ‘em Lords Declarant,” she explained in quiet, rushed voice. “They’re coming for him, for your lord father. His time is up.”

“But he has done everything they wanted him to,” noted Sansa shakily. “All of it. And more of his people are going to arrive soon, what about them? They can’t!”

But her friend only smiled sadly, reaching to the closet to get them some coats.

“Lord Baelish isn’t the only the only person capable of weaselling information out of people without them realizing. He talked to Harry soon after his arrival. Littlefinger lied to you. Us. No men are coming, at least no more than the usual bunch. And Ser Shadrich and Ser Morgarth are currently with Donnel Waynwood at the Gate which leaves you more defenceless than usually.”

_‘He didn’t lie. I did.’_

“And you think they’ll try to hurt me.”

Mya looked at her for a longer moment, her expression unreadable.

“I don’t know,” she confessed finally. “There is nothing I would’ve loved more in those entire Seven Kingdoms than knowing for certain that yes, you will be safe from them all. But I don’t.” She threw one of the coats on Sansa’s shoulders and gave her hand a squeeze. “Let’s go. We’ll stay... somewhere. Ser Lothor promised me he’ll wait for us by the stables.”

She seemed desperate enough to wander off into the blizzard without a second thought. But that was just silly.

“I will not leave my father to injustices of Lords Declarant,” she announced. _Not even if he deserves it. Not even then._ “The Vale does not even realize how much he’s needed. If it is so required, I will make them see the truth.”

She could see the dismay in her friend’s eyes as sound of several footsteps neared. Remembering Rickon and Winterfell, Sansa opened the door to her chamber and stepped outside, right under the nose of Lord Nestor Royce.

_‘I am a Stark. I shall be brave, like Robb and Father and even Arya had always been.’_

“What is causing your unrest, my lords?” she asked, standing between them and the stairs to Lord Baelish’s chambers. “One might think you are being hostile towards your devoted liege.”

“That is not true in the slightest,” told her Lady Anya. Her son had his hand on the sword’s hilt, but the woman seemed unarmed, almost friendly. “We are simply seeking answers. Ones your father must surely have.”

“If that is the case, would you be willing to postpone this meeting until the fast tomorrow? My dear betrothed Harry the Heir will be then able to be a piece of this, undoubtedly very peaceful, discussion. It would certainly please him to know how much you appreciate his insightful opinions.”

“Ser Harry does not need to know everything,” told her Lord Yohn, dismissively. “We understand your distress, girl, but worry not; you have enough friends here. Your life is not in danger. Now, run to that boy of yours, but do not tell him naught. It would not do you any good.”

Once, she would have believed his words, every last one. But people never meant it when they promised not to hurt her. Never.

“Is that because he wouldn’t have it?” she asked, stepping closer and making an effort to seem taller. Stronger. Not afraid.

Nestor Royce put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently towards the entrance of her own chamber.

“This is solely an attempt to help our young lord, dear Alayne. Surely you, as his primary caretaker, must understand how necessary it is.”

Alayne freed herself from his grasp. She might’ve been a bastard child, but it did not mean they ought to look down on her. They never acted that way around Mya. Maybe because her friend was actually from the Vale. And she... Sansa was of the North. Harsh, cold North, that froze the blood in your veins and left you stronger. How had she managed to forget for so long? The Gates of the Moon... they looked so much like Winterfell.

“You are mistaken, my lords. My lady. What you are capable of causing is but a slight on your own reputation. And, may I add, in such uneasy times such minor detail might decide upon your future. The war that is raging is sure to leave us all in peculiar positions by the time winter ends. Can you predict them? And so I ask of you, friends, to lay down your weapons. Do not doom your lives by enraging our not so forgiving Queen Regent. There will be time for that yet.”

Friends, she’d called them, though they certainly were not that. But it was what won you most battles, wasn’t it? _You can turn_ _King's Landing_ _upside down and not find a single man with a mockingbird sewn over his heart but that does not mean I am friendless,_ was what Petyr had told her once. This only proved how much she needed him.

Something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Petyr Baelish stood there in the shadows, unseen by them all. For a fleeting moment she even caught that horrid, sly smile cross his lips. _He knew._ Must have known from the beginning that it was going to come to such confrontation. It suddenly didn’t seem so mad to think that maybe he did manipulate an oblivious Mya to make sure Sansa was in the corridor in the right time.

One day, one day she was going to be free of him. That day, however, he was one of the many prices she had to pay to get her home back.

“My lady?” she heard Lord Yohn call after her, as she was already turning around to walk away. She turned around. He wouldn’t call her that earlier.

“Yes?”

“You appear to be worthy of your father’s name.”

 _Which one?_ Sansa searched his face for any clues, but found nothing of value. Did he know?

For the time being, it mattered not. All that was left was waiting for more news. And praying for the man who betrayed her trust far too many times to count.

The moment she returned to her chamber and closed the door behind her, Sansa felt more exhausted than she did in many moons. But it only took her one look at Mya holding Rickon’s new tunic with confusion written all over her face to understand that the day was still far from over.

She took the cloth from her friends hands and sat them both on their bed.

“It’s too big for Lord Robert,” started Mya hesitantly. “And far too small to suit Ser Harrold or even your father. So why – “

“Remember how I told you, many moons ago, that I once had a husband?” Sansa smiled, smoothing the fabric. “Well. I suppose I could’ve told you the rest too. It’s a long story, and not a happy one, but... it is mine. And of all the people here you are certainly the one who deserves to know it.”

She felt Mya’s hand on her shoulder, but continued, picking up her thread and a needle and patching the hole in the sleeve.

“I wasn’t raised among the septas. My home was once up north, far beyond the Neck. And then it burned.”

*

It was over, she thought, crossing the yard. The last couple of messengers brought nothing but grave news. King Tommen’s forces were failing, the Lannisters weren’t going to hold power much longer. It should have made her happy, really. It was the Lannisters after all, not anyone else, who were responsible for the downfall of her family. But with Aegon Targaryen’s upcoming victory several deaths were to occur. She did not want to think of sweet little Tommen having his head chopped off and put on a spike, like her father’s head had once been. His wife Margaery and her handsome brothers were in similar danger too. And so was Petyr Baelish. With the power behind the Iron Throne crumbling... They were going to get rid of him and after that Lady Anya would feel free to persuade Harry not to marry Alayne. What happens to an orphaned bastard? She did not know.

And then something made her look up.

A raven flew over her head. Dark feathers only made the white piece of parchment between its claws more visible. Another message. So far almost all of them had been unfortunate, but maybe this time... Alayne followed it with her eyes, making up a prayer to Mother and Warrior both. _‘Once, just once, let it be good news.’_

And, for the first time, it had been.

“They say that the so-called Aegon Targaryen was murdered by his Dornish wife when they travelled to Braavos to meet with a dragonrider, an unknown man in service of Daenerys Targaryen. The false queen Arianne Martell hasn’t been found since and so it is also assumed the two women plotted together to overpower the pretender.”

Sansa stared at Lord Baelish, stunned. It was horrifying how easy the fate of millions could be turned. There wasn’t going to be a dragon prince who saved his people. The thought almost made her feel sad.

On the other hand, Tommen and Myrcella would not lose their lives. And neither would her protector. The aftermaths of War of the Five Kings had finally truly ended.

“Tommen wins, then.”

Littlefinger looked at her with a smirk playing on his lips.

“He does. For now, at least. But let us worry about that in the years to come. There are other matters to solve. His triumph means our triumph as well and yours especially, my dear daughter. A green dress will have to do for now instead of a white one, but it doesn’t change that much. Your so called husband is presumed dead, unseen for years and with a bounty on his head. A corpse would have been better, but what we’re given will have to do. The time of your wedding is fast approaching.”

She met his gaze. He knew, always knew how she felt about being betrothed for power yet again, even if he never asked. Joffrey, Willas, Robin... at least Harry thought he loved her. Though whether he was right or wrong was still unclear.

“It is good to finally hear those words,” she told him, smiling. “We were kept uncertain for so long. I’m glad we can finally achieve this. Something so unbreakable.”

She never told him she later vomited at the sight of her wedding dress laid out on her bed. She never told him how Mya spent half the night stroking her hair and whispering soothing words to make her stop trembling. She never told him how she took a knife from the kitchens to cut the gown into pieces and only stopped because she feared his reaction.

Sansa Stark would not give him that pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Alayne Stone  
> Year 302-303 AL  
> Time period: 1 year  
> Characters: Alayne Stone, Harry Hardyng, Rickon Stark, Mya Stone, Myranda Royce, Petyr Baelish, Anya Waynwood, Nestor Royce, Lothor Brune, Yohn Royce,


	6. Sweet Life of a Provincial Whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't done so earlier, I recommend reading Whore's Brother (Our Way is the Old Way series, part 1) before this chapter. It's a short piece that, though not necessary, might explain some of the things that are happening in here.  
> Also, this is a bit of a filler. A bit.

-Nan-

_303 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

It was quite ridiculous how often most patrons of the Peach would think Lanna to be a maiden, despite the fact that she worked as one of the Peaches. They would even ask her about it before bedding the girl. Maybe it was because of the lovely, sweet face she possessed, or the fact that she always smiled very shyly and blushed prettily every time someone paid her a compliment.

She was no maiden, obviously. And she wasn’t truly shy. Lanna would laugh about “those poor, foolish fuckers” later, when left alone with other girls, and when she did, her smile looked entirely different. Nan liked her a lot, though. She’d spent way too much time learning how to lie well to not enjoy such admirable acting.

“They are all just tiny little sheep, thinking so much of themselves, their honor and strength and glory,” Lanna would always announce as they were sitting in the basement with Bella, Cass, Jyzene and all the other girls, drinking ale. “So who are we then if we’re able to finish them with such ease? We are the powerful ones, remember my words.”

Nan frowned at that statement.

“If that’s true then why it is men who rule in this world?”

“Because being a ruler is dangerous!” explained Lanna, smiling her smug smile as if her words were all the evidence she needed to prove herself to be right.”From what I’ve gathered, all the rulers perish. Late king Robert? Dead. His Hands? Dead, both of them. His first son? About as dead as a person can be. The next Hand, lord Lannister? His brother? The Young Wolf, the King in the North? His brothers? King of the Iron Islands? King beyond the Wall? King Renly Baratheon? King Stannis no-fun Baratheon? The Targaryen one, king Aegon? Dead, dead, dead. They all died, at least according to my clients. And this boy-king, he’ll die too, you’ll see. That man who bedded me two nights ago said king Tommen is really sick. I bet they’re poisoning him. All that happens and yet queen regent, king Robert’s wife, still occupies the throne, while yet another one, the Grey Queen, is beginning her own war. They say she has allied herself with one more queen too, still unrevealed. Tell me now, my sweet Nan, are you sure women do not rule this world? No man will ever admit it, but if you read through their drunken rambling you can find more facts than they would be willing to give you. And there are a lot of rambling to read through… if you only know how to play.”

 _But I don’t need to play_ decided Nan in silence, biting her lip thoughtfully. _What I need is to find what happened to my memories and home. My own name. And Jon - especially him. Nothing else. I just want myself._

She did not say that out loud, though, only scoffed skeptically, extending her hand to reach for the ale.

It was quite common for Peach girls to come to their little cold basement and drink and complain about their recent clients whenever they were not needed or when they felt overwhelmed.

Prostitutes often felt overwhelmed, as Nan had once discovered in Braavos, but here it all seemed intensified. Not all of the girls though, of course. And she couldn’t decide which ones she understood better. She just knew she started liking them, really.

It was quite surprising. She did not remember how it would be in those times with a pack of her own, but she definitely knew she did not have that many friends when living an almost-a-beggar life in Braavos. It was rather hard to gain a friend when you had nothing to offer. Of course Merry and her girls had always been there with their kind smiles and smart, harmless japes, but she always figured it was just how Happy Port was. They were good people, sweet enough to tolerate invasions of a gutter rat like her.

She had some new friends now, at least she quietly hoped they were that. Peaches were in no way alike the courtesans she met in Braavos. They didn’t read (most people in Westeros couldn’t) or played with knives for laughs, weren’t hired to simply accompany the client to a play, only used to bed. It made her angry sometimes, that nobody was willing to appreciate them, but maybe that was just how war worked. And the girls were great nevertheless. There were some who felt uncomfortable about having under their roof a worker who does not earn her coin like them, but safety was important. Soldiers were still occupying the area around the Stoney Sept and Gods knew how long they were going to stay.

She would stay as well.

Bella handed her the wineskin and Nan took another sip of ale, wincing greatly.

It tasted like shit.

 _No wonder Peach was a brothel_ , she decided quietly. _If it tried to survive only by selling ale such as that, they’d never stay in the business._

“So, what was it this time?” Cass nudged Bella slightly with a knowing smile. “Come on, you had some new ones lately. Give us the cringing details, sweet love!”

The girl grimaced as if she took yet another big gulp of the gods-awful ale.

“A man named Ambrose, right? I mean, what kind of name is that?”

“What did he do?” asked Nan, almost interested. Anyone named Ambrose must’ve indeed had some fascinatingly disgusting preferences – the core of basement gossips.

“He said he wants us to pretend he’s raping me, can you believe it?” Bella twisted her pretty face with disgust. “So gross. I almost said no, but Tansy would probably be furious.”

Lanna chuckled scornfully, taking the wineskin from Nan to drink herself.

“Believe? It’s absolutely believable. That damn winter is making them go crazy. And everyone else too. We’re not Northerners to sit around in such cold. What I won’t believe is that lovely boy of yours is gonna be thrilled to hear about this whole thing.”

It suddenly seemed like all the blood had escaped from Bella’s face.

“Don’t tell him” she mumbled clumsily. “Nobody ever tells him. He might kill this guy, aye? Nobody tells him.”

Nan wanted to ask who the hell is that “lovely boy” of Bella’s, but Jyzene passed her the ale and, listening to her friends’ complaints, she felt the need to simply continue drinking.

*

“I’ve been trying to connect with my friends” confessed Tansy one evening, as they watched Lanna being taken upstairs by one of the sellswords. “but they’re not close enough and I can’t risk sending anyone too far. Especially one of the girls. They’ll get themselves raped and murdered in a matter of seconds, just like Red Lanna did, that poor thing.

“You think anyone will come and rescue Peach prostitutes like some fair maidens locked in a tower?” asked Nan skeptically. “‘Coz I somehow doubt it. Unless you have some valuable highborn lady hidden in here. Again, don’t think so.”

Tansy only snorted and poured herself more ale.

“I don’t expect any knights, all right? Not the real ones, at least. I guess they theoretically are knighted, most of them. Brotherhood Without Banners, that is. A bunch of dumb outlaws with stupid ideas of helping the weaker ones and changing the face of war. Great way to fill young boys’ heads with dreams of glory and honor and ideas that almost always lead to getting ‘em hanged.”

“Really.“ She glanced at the older woman with a frown. Tansy’s voice was sounding peculiar. Maybe from the ale. The woman drank all the time and a lot at that.

Tansy sighed. “No. Not since a while ago, when their first leader finally died. Though I still prefer to think of them that way. They were more fun when they weren’t trying to bring down those Freys. But I do really think they would be some help. I mean, this boy that beds Bella constantly is one of them, right? I’m sure he would come to the rescue, since they are apparently in love, from what I’ve heard.”

“Didn’t know Bella has a lover,” lied Nan smoothly, in hopes of getting out of her friend some interesting facts. “Does he even approve of… well, this?”

“Somehow. No idea why, though. I think he’d love to take her away from here, every time I see him he looks more and more grumpy. I’d try to stop them from seeing each other but I’m afraid she might leave then. Plus, he pays for the time they spend together. Whole nights.”

“How romantic” snorted Nan, holding the mug of ale to her mouth. “I bet Bella is thrilled.”

“She is, actually. Prepare to hear a lot about our dear Florian and Jonqil.”

But that wasn’t what she was here for. She was waiting for the news every brothel seemed to provide, holding onto the hope that appeared the moment she recognized the Peach and protecting its workers until there was no danger. And…

“What did you say? About this… Brotherhood. They are hunting Freys?”

“Aye, that they do. For quite a few years now. Already got several of them and many of their people, but they say there are more Freys than all the other highborns together so I guess it has to take a while. That new Lord Frey is probably shitting his pants most of the time and buying more and more guards.”

It was more than weird to hear. Freys, as a family were mentioned on that list Ser Meryn’s name also graced, the one she’d been trying so hard to forget. They did… they killed them. Some people, she knew it. _Her_ people, part of _her pack_. Was it possible that the Brotherhood Without Banners had similar motives to the ones she ought to be having? But no, that was quite ridiculous. They were supposed to be the good people. And she, as much as she might have loathed herself for it, was no one of those.

Still, the bunch of outlaws was also most likely not serving justice properly. Did they know? He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. Nan certainly hoped they kept to that.

*

Of all the girls that worked at the brothel Nan considered Lanna to be the most fascinating one. She was one of the youngest, barely seven and ten of age, very short and childlike in appearance, but still so confident, so smug. She supposed it must’ve come from the years she spent among the ever intimidating courtesans of Braavos, all of them so proud and sure about women’s superiority over men. So unwilling to show any weakness, no matter what.

And yet it was also the child of Happy Port that Nan found in the basement, crying her eyes out.

When the girl noticed her, she tried to hide her face and for a second Nan opted on letting her; she was probably the last person who should be taking care of anyone with a breakdown. But for some reason she stayed and gently poked the young courtesan with her foot, trying to show her something alike support while also having no idea how to do so.

“Don’t cry” she ordered her harshly, though not without some kindness in her voice. “It’s stu… dumb. If people see you cry, they think you weak. Is that what you want? Weren’t you supposed to be stronger than them all?”

Nan was able to see the rage boiling in her friend’s eyes.

“I was. Thank you for reminding me, really.”

“Fine. You can continue being dumb, if you so much want to,” told her Nan, turning away, irritated. “If Tansy gets mad ‘coz you ain’t in form tonight, it’s your problem.”

“Nan…”

There it was. She turned back to face Lanna. The girl stood up and even managed to adopt quite a confident pose. Nevertheless, Nan was hit with a realization that her friend really is only a child, already a whore for years and evidently too young for the life she got. Back in Braavos she at least had a mother with her. In here though, she was just as alone as the rest of them.

“What.”

“You won’t tell Tansy. Don’t ever dare tell her about this, or I’ll make sure you pay for it.”

“Mhm.” What was it with whores and their secrets?

What was it with people in general and their secrets?

“This man bedded me last night.” Started Lanna with a shockingly small amount of certainty in her voice and Nan could hardly say she liked where it was going. But, as it turned out, that was not what the girl had in mind.

“He wasn’t young or even very handsome. Or anything, really. His skin was red like a tomato, he stank of ale and only had seven fingers. But I liked it, for the first time. He made me feel good. I was flying, you know? Like that dragon. And… oh, I hate that. I hate him.”

Nan understood her all too well. Both she and Lanna seemed to hate showing their weaknesses to others, or being vulnerable at all, to be honest. The fact that some ugly little man managed to held over Lanna a power the girl herself usually got to hold (and loved to do it so very much) must have been devastating for the young woman, Nan knew.

She wasn’t a perfect friend. She didn’t have any good (or even bad) advices that could make Lanna grin once more. And so, she said the only nice thing that came to her mind.

“I could kill him, If you want. I’ll stab that cuntsucker and he’ll die. What do you say?”

She hasn’t killed anyone since King’s Landing. That was a while ago and she is a monster after all, isn’t she? The man with the red tunic certainly would’ve agreed.

Lanna glanced at her with a hardened look in her bright green eyes. For a second it all seemed weirdly familiar and Nan couldn’t stop herself from feeling a sudden rush of aversion towards the girl. But the second soon passed and so did the feeling. And Lanna smiled through her tears.

“That’s the only thing he deserves. You’re a true friend, Nan.”

*

Despite the large number of soldiers, the one she was looking for was not at all hard to find.

Lanna was right, Nan had to admit, there was nothing to him that could catch the eye. Two of his front teeth were missing and his eyes were watery. Seeing that, she sneered to herself. There was no way in a thousand years that that man could ever deserve her beautiful, lovely friend. She watched him drink with his friends from a safe distance. At least they were enjoying the ale- that meant it couldn’t have come from the Peach.

She had no idea how to kill him. There were men all around and he certainly wouldn’t be willing to leave his cups for a while. She could probably wait for an opportunity to show up, but that meant the Peach would be unprotected the whole evening or longer. She could not risk endangering her friends, or even Tansy finding her unreliable.

As soon as she thought of them, an idea came to her mind. She rushed back to the house. Bella was far too tall and busty and Lanna too short, but both Cass and Helly seemed to be of roughly the same size and, hastily going through their few dresses, Nan soon managed to find something for herself.

“Ser Lucan?”

He glanced at her, startled. Sure, she knew he wasn’t a knight, but few men dislike hearing that title next to their name, and, as it quickly turned out, he was no exception.

“Yes, girl?”

“I’m from the inn. The Peach, that is. You were there last night.” She glanced down, biting her lip in fear of looking too straight forward. Men rarely like that kind of girls.

There was something horribly familiar about the things she was doing, so much that she wanted to scream and cry and never look anyone in the eye again. But she did none of those things.

“Aye, I was.” The soldier took a long sip of ale. “Don’t remember you though.”

“Was off duty then, ser,” she explained at once. “But my friend wasn’t. Lanna, that is. She told me what you did. Said… Said it was really nice. So, I was wondering…” She blushed for a better effect, but it was hardly needed. Lucan was already on his feet, motioning for her to follow him to the woods. _It’s easy,_ whispered a voice in her head as she was forcing herself to take the first few steps, _and you’ve certainly done this before. See how stupid they are? She was right. He deserves to die._

But, no matter how much she reminded herself of Lanna’s weeping face, she could not stop herself from doubting those words more and more each passing moment.

*

The next day Nan presented a head of the man to Lanna and got the brightest of smiles and the sweetest kiss that she could feel on her lips even hours later.

“See?” pointed out Lanna, glaring at the head as if it were already full of worms. “Now he’s dead but, really, who cares? Their seed is the only part on them that tends to be useful. We don’t need them.”

 _We don’t_ , agreed Nan silently, trying not to look at Lucan’s fearful grimace, still present on his face. _But, apparently, we need their deaths._

*

She did, in the end, befriend the Peaches. Although suspicious at first, the girls turned out to be hardly prejudiced and actually accepted her to their community with no problems. Drinking ale in the basement became also her tradition. It was nothing like visiting the courtesans in Happy Port, where most women were experienced and educated and wore silks. Those girls spoke like commoners and behaved like ones as well. Nan though could not mind less if she tried.

Jyzene had the weirdest sense of humor Nan enjoyed so much. Leslyn gave creative bedding tips, coming from her years of experiences. She even liked to visit Bella in her small chamber and talk in whispers about everything and everyone, a girlish custom she would normally both be jealous of and for some reason despise. (And despised still, only not with Bella, not with her. There was just something too familiar and sweet about the girl to not crave for those moments.)

She teased her new friend about a lover she heard other girls speaking of. They said he never visits any other girls and comes regularly.

“He is not my lover, actually.” Bella’s quiet confession flowed through the dark room, as they were lying on her bed one night, staring at the (countless) imperfections on the ceiling. “That’s really just my brother and I’m no Lannister or Targaryen – obviously – to fuck a sibling of mine. I just don’t tell the others. They might be jealous or uneasy and if Tansy finds out she might not let us buy me time for those nights when he comes. And I like him a lot. We simply stay in the room, sometimes talk. He is not too much for talking, tough. I don’t mind, truly. He’s a fine brother. _My_ fine brother.”

 _‘You have a brother too. His name is Jon and he’s waiting for you to get home, to him... He loves you’_ , whispered a voice in Nan’s head and she almost said it aloud. But she couldn’t. What if Jon did not love her anymore? It must’ve been years since their last encounter. He may not care about her now, especially if he realizes what she had done, if he finds out how many people she had killed. Glancing at Bella she noticed her sweet smile. It surely wouldn’t have been half as sweet if she knew.

“That’s… that’s great. I suppose.”

The girl grabbed Nan’s arm with surprising force. She was much stronger than she seemed.

“Don’t tell people. Tansy or Leslyn… even Lanna. He’s my little secret, right? Gendry is my little lovely secret.”

Those words awoke something in her - or maybe it was just that one word?

Gendry.

Yes. She knows that name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Nan  
> Year: 303 AL  
> Time period: 4 moons  
> Characters: Nan, Lanna, Bella, Tansy, Lucan (OC), Cass;
> 
> Kinda hoping my love for Bella isn't showing too much.  
> Sansa's up next. Duh.


	7. Walder Frey's Impertinence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting this so late. My life's been a crazy ride lately and losing voice for a week didn't help either.  
> Also, it's 3 AM right now and this has been edited i think twice (and not 20 times like usually) so mistakes and low quality are bound to happen. Sorry about that too.

_-Lady Alayne-_

_303 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

“I thought you were going to be _my_ wife.”

She smiled at Sweetrobin apologetically, tucking him in. The boy had been in a sour mood for a while now, ever since he heard of her betrothal being official, to be exact. Alayne had always tried to shield him from any news that had the chance of being unpleasant to the young lordling, but this one could not be a secret any longer. The wedding was approaching, and fast. Sansa shuddered at the thought.

 _He’s not a monster, like Joffrey was_ , she reminded herself. _Nor is he a Lannister like Tyrion, or a sickly, insufferable child... This is different. It is._

Maybe if she repeated those words often enough, they would somehow become true.

Rickon had been almost as displeased to hear the news as his cousin. He kept repeating that they do not need “some stupid pie-faced knight from the South” to win back their home. Sometimes, Sansa liked to think he was right. But Rickon was just a child, she reminded herself, not even ten years of age and overconfident when it came to their possibilities. Nobody had ever forced him to survive King’s Landing, or the treacherous games of Lord Petyr Baelish. Rickon did not understand.

She remembered telling him of the so-called Aegon Targaryen’s death. They said that the young dragon was taught for years and years how to rule what was his but it only took a knife and a girl to end all that for good in a matter of moments. The Dornish learned a lesson that day, one they would not forget easily, her father had said. Princess Arianne was still unfound and no one could explain what had actually happened, but when Alayne mentioned the whole thing to Rickon, he merely snorted.

“Bran already told me. That king was so stupid.”

It was all she was able to get out of him, and Bran never told _her_ anything of it. She wasn’t even sure if he ever really spoke to her. It was most likely all just her little brother’s game to help him cope with the reality of their situation.

He wouldn’t be at her wedding.

It was a bitter realization that hurt Sansa more than she was willing to admit, even to Mya. The ceremony was to be restricted to very few important guests, of noble birth only, so there was no way of sneaking in a dirty little boy who probably did not wish to be there in the first place (and would most certainly insist on bringing a giant feral direwolf). It was hard enough to convince Lord Nestor to allow the presence of her best friend.

Sansa wouldn’t be able to get through the whole thing without her.

“ _Alayne._ ”

She snapped out of the memory of Mya’s face when she was told the story of Winterfell and long, happy summers to focus on young Robin’s face. It was scrunched up in annoyance, the boy obviously not appreciating her lack of attention.

“You were reading to me about Harren the Black and his castle. I want to know what happens next.”

“You do already know what happens,” she reminded him pointedly. “We’ve read this story hundreds of times already. A dragon’s fire burns Harrenhal and it becomes haunted.”

The young lord shrugged and sat up on the bed. She noticed it took him a moment to do so and he paled slightly. Father was right; Robert was going to die, most likely before the end of year 303 AL. The little strength he possessed when she saw him for the first time had already faded away. Sansa suspected that even a stronger cold could now end his short life. Maester Colemon did not dare to leech him anymore. And if the recently more popular than ever greyscale were to reach their castle, the boy would become a corpse within a sennight. _He is only eleven and already dying._ Her tummy clenched uncomfortably at the thought. Even little brats like Sweetrobin didn’t deserve such fate.

“All right then. Harren the Black, yes? _A horrid leader he was, that barbaric king, terrorizing the peaceful lords of the Riverlands…_ ” she kept reading, but stopped paying attention to her own voice. The green dress was back on her mind.

_You do realize who you’re going to become?_

The answer already sat at the back of her mind. And it was nothing like what Lady Anya had been implying.

*

Mya’s hair was already reaching her shoulder blades, even if the woman had cut it at least twice during the three years of their friendship. Alayne knew it was solely for her benefit. There was something incredibly relaxing in brushing and braiding her friend’s thick mop of dark hair, twisting it into styles she should not have known. Somehow, it didn’t make her want to cry when she was seeing them on the girl’s head. It was their secret tradition, started right after the tale of Sansa’s true family was said out loud. Mya would go to sleep with neat fishtails of the Tullys and modest northern braids Sansa once looked down upon. They always spent the mornings untangling whatever was left of the hairstyles.

“Have you picked one for the wedding day already?” Mya asked, turning her head slightly, as Alayne pulled two locks together. “It could be that thing you made yesterday. You know. With those complicated knots and spirals. Looked rich, like the stuff for princesses.”

Sansa shook her head.

“It is most common among the women in White Harbor, my mother always said.” It almost didn’t hurt to mention her Lady Mother anymore. Almost. “I know it won’t be possible for me to wear anything from my homeland, but I thought that maybe a fishtail braid could be just fine. Father was raised in Riverrun, after all, it is certainly the most splendid place Alayne Stone is connected to.” She finished the lace rolled updo and secured it with a blue ribbon. It looked good on Mya, bringing out the deep colour of her lovely eyes. Alayne smiled at the sight.

“It seems so simple though. If that doesn’t bother you, then maybe you should let your hair loose. Looks beautiful that way too.”

“That was how Margaery outshined Queen Cersei,” told her Sansa. “Simplicity. I remember how they both always looked, back in King’s Landing. Cersei used to drown herself in expensive jewellery and gowns. Margaery’s clothes and hairstyles were far more humble and they still looked so much better. Though I suppose it could be also contributed to the fact that she wasn’t getting old and fat and did not spend her days drinking wine,” she added as an afterthought, then giggled, shocked to hear such words coming from her mouth. “Do forgive me, that was horribly unladylike.”

But Mya was already laying on their bed, guffawing even more and pulling Alayne down as well. They looked at each other and burst into yet another fit of giggles.

“Thi-this is most improper!” decided Sansa, trying to stop herself. Why were they laughing? It wasn’t even _funny_.

Mya took one of her hands, lacing their fingers.

“But for once, you did look happy. I haven’t seen you smile like that in moons.”

Suddenly, neither of them were laughing.

“I...”

She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. What was the point? Mya knew everything already.

“Are you going to leave after the wedding? Go to the Ironoaks?”

Sansa met her eyes. Lovely. They’ve always been the prettiest thing about her friend. And now, she couldn’t read them.

“Not a chance. Lord Baelish never would’ve allowed it and neither would I. I’m staying right here.”

Relief. Finally something she understood.

“Good. That’s good.”

*

“Are you ready, my sweet?”

She looked up to see Lord Protector glancing at her with raised eyebrows. It was time.

_No, and I’ll likely never be._

“Very much so, Father.” She allowed him to take hold of her arm and lead her to the sept. Her legs were not shaking. They weren’t.

“You look quite beautiful,” Petyr noted. “Even more so than usually.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly, all she wanted was to reach the sept and the people in it.

Harry stood next to the septon between the figures of Mother and Father, smiling sheepishly as she walked towards him, dressed in garments finer than usually, red tunic beautifully embroidered with thread white as snow.

 _I should be the one wearing white_ , it occurred to her. _White and grey. I am a Stark of Winterfell. The green dress is wrong_. Petyr’s fingers dug painfully into her arm and she had to suppress a grimace, not wanting to appear unhappy on her own wedding day. For a fleeting moment she wondered just how much he was willing to marry her off before deciding she would rather not know. It was a part of him that scared and repulsed her the most, even if she didn’t always realize it.

They reached her betrothed. Harry clasped her hand, beaming at her and before she knew it Alayne was smiling back. She couldn’t even tell if it was a true gesture or an effect of being so used to faking happiness.

Everything happened a lot faster than it did the last time. The prayers were over almost as soon as they begun and she swore the minstrel only sung four or five songs. When the second one was beginning, she noticed Mya out of the corner of her eye. She looked even prettier than she did normally in a modest brown dress. Next to her Randa eyed Harry suspiciously.

Tom Sevenstrings ended the last ballad. Lord Baelish brushed his forearm over her left shoulder when reaching to unclasp her cloak and Sansa shuddered, remembering Joffrey’s wondering hands. _Petyr might be smarter, but none of them should ever be here._ She glanced at Harry, who already held his own cloak before him. His welcoming grin calmed her slightly. No kneeling, no kings laughing, no tears. This was better. When he threw the red-and-white piece of cloth around her shoulders, it almost made her feel warm.

They kissed, promising to love each other, and the septon announced Harrold of House Hardyng and Alayne Stone husband and wife, one body, heart and soul. She still did not want to cry. Maybe because it wasn’t _her_ name that they called.

But when her new husband later led her to the dance floor, his touch delicate as always and a genuine smile on his face, she decided it could not be the only reason.

*

It hurt more than she thought it would when he pushed into her, but Sansa still fought back a pained hiss, not willing to upset her newly wedded husband.

That was it. They might’ve been capable of ignoring that joke called her first wedding, but no force in the world could annul a consummated marriage. It was done.

She put her hands on Harry’s shoulders as he begun moving and stared at the ceiling, waiting for him to finish. The discomfort was there, but not terrible and it seemed like her lord husband was trying to be gentle. She had no idea, however, how long it normally took. Petyr always insisted on teaching her the art of pleasing a man (“It is a skill every wife ought to possess, after all.”), but Alayne made excuses every time and ran to Mya or Rickon whenever Littlefinger brought up the subject.

She tried moving her hips to escape the pain. Harry’s pace quickened and a moment later she felt his seed pool inside her, as the man collapsed, burying Sansa under his weight.

“I love you,” she heard him whisper into her shoulder. She found herself weaving fingers into his sandy blonde hair, holding him close.

“And I love you, my husband.”

The words sounded far more sincere than they actually were, but she found herself wishing for them to come true. In the darkness of their bedroom she could forget the laughter in Mya’s eyes and maybe even the dreams of a once lost home. What counted was the feeling of comfort and stability that came with being Harry’s wife. She and Rickon were finally safe. And for the first time in years, the person who gave her that offered it out of their heart. Alayne reached for her new husband, pressing her lips to his. Kissing was much nicer than bedding and Harry seemed to enjoy doing it as well.

They were already falling asleep when Sansa realized that she hadn’t seen Mya during the latter part of the wedding.

*

It wasn’t the worst thing, being married to Ser Harry Hardyng, Sansa decided after the first couple of moons. He was a better man than most, even if the dismissive words from months earlier still rung in her head. Laying with him never became particularly pleasant, but the pain soon dissolved and from Myranda’s comments on her own experience, it sounded like Harry did in fact treat her gently. Alayne welcomed that thought eagerly.

They rarely spent their days together, but during the evenings her lord husband liked to listen to her sing or even discuss some of their favourite stories, like that of Jenny of Oldstones and her Dragonfly Prince. It didn’t take her long, however, to notice that few of the people around her truly cared for her beloved.

Myranda she could understand, but the woman actually proved to be probably the least prejudiced of the group, finally getting over her petty anger. Petyr she expected to silently disapprove and turned out to be right. What worried her most, though, were the attitudes of Mya and Rickon. She never before considered Mya to be capable of such coldness towards anybody who wasn’t Littlefinger (and even then not openly), but the girl liked to grimace at the sole mention of Harry’s name and exchange meaningful looks with Rickon whenever the boy was around. It was relieving to see them finally find some common ground to strengthen their strained relationship, but Sansa couldn’t help but wish the first subject they ever agreed on did not consist of disliking someone she was bound to for the rest of her life. Rickon especially needed to learn to hold his tongue. He had none of the restrain that good kings needed and it was becoming harder and harder to imagine him losing all the unwished for traits by the time they finally reached the North. But before Sansa could reprimand either her little brother or best friend, there were other matters that caught her attention.

She realized years earlier already that the rest of the world had a way of reminding her of its existence, no matter how much she was trying to forget.

*

She did not remember ever being this angry. It seemed to turn the blood in her veins into ice, freezing her in one place.

Walder Frey had passed away peacefully in his bed, still Lord of the Crossing, still holding the Twins, still with an _army_ of descendants, all eager to inherit his seat. He was found in his bed, after living ninety five years of betrayal and lies that had only ever led him to triumphs. After surviving so many of his wives. So many enemies and lieges alike. After surviving Robb and Lady Catelyn.

Even Harry did not dare try to console her when the letter was read to them. The cold look in her eyes stopped him from reaching for her hand.

Or maybe that was because he simply didn’t understand.

It was too unjust. She learned that a long time ago, of course, the moment Joffrey ordered Ser Illyn Payne to cut off her father’s head… but this had been an unexpected blow.

Why did Lord Frey deserve to grow old and father fifty or so sons and her own brothers couldn’t afford a single wrinkle between the four of them? Rickon was still so young… And becoming more and more like Robb every day. Sansa hated him for it almost as much as she loved him. She hated the fear that came with knowing how wild her little boy was, how eager to fight and die for her.

But Lord Walder Frey… He was supposed to learn of her and Rickon. He was supposed to leave this world with fear in his eyes, sentenced for his crimes.

It scared her how much she could hate a dead man.

That night she took her husband to bed for the first time listening to Myranda’s advices on pleasing husbands. Alayne was a stupid little girl who wished for a peaceful life alongside her handsome, pleasant husband, but Sansa needed more. And if she bore Harry a son, it was more than likely that he would do almost anything for her in return.

*

Harry was away at the Bloody Gate, visiting Ser Donnel Waynwood, when the word of a beast reached them first. It was supposed to be impossible to spot, quiet, giant and bloodthirsty, roaming through the mountains nearby. Nobody had been attacked, but several animals were found with their stomachs ripped open and half-devoured. Sansa was almost grateful for her husband’s absence; she had no time for pretending to be shocked by the commoners’ descriptions. King’s Landing made her almost accustomed to the sight of blood and even if she had left that dreadful place years earlier, the lessons remained.

“It’s not Shaggy,” assured her Rickon after being confronted. “We’ve been here for a long time and nobody’s ever noticed us. ‘S true, you know it.”

She did. Rickon and Shaggydog might’ve not seemed to be, but they really were careful when it came to staying hidden while also keeping an eye on her.

“People are scared, though,” Mya noted, covering a rock with her coat and motioning for Sansa to sit down. “And it’s not so bad when the monster is hunting deer and hares, but last week it killed two goats. The winter is still far from over. We need as many livestock animals as it is possible.”

Sansa smirked.

“We should most likely tell our people to stop being unreasonable and taking the animals outside of the gates in search of the grass that has been buried under four feet of snow, while an unknown predator hovers around.”

They were counting on her just as much as they were relying on Lord Protector. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but there it was: her people. She did not want them to be that.

Rickon pursed his lips, staring at a small flock of birds flying above them.

“Bran said we should not worry. About the monster.”

“Stop saying that!” she snapped at him. “Bran didn’t tell you anything, do you hear me? Don’t talk of him like that. It is wrong.”

She had enough of listening to Rickon bringing up her little dead brother whenever she wasn’t expecting him to. It was probably why it never stopped hurting to think of Bran. And she was tired of being hurt by memories.

Rickon didn’t respond. For the first time since their reunion, he appeared hostile, hiding behind his wolf and trying to hide the tears that started to pool out of his eyes. Sansa sighed.

“Sweetling, I apologise. It was awfully harsh of me to say such things. But you must see...”

“Shut up!” he yelled, angrily wiping his eyes. “You don’t understand! Just like the rest of them! Osha was right, everyone here’s so southern, nobody sees the truth. And you’re the worst!”

He jumped onto Shaggy’s back and before either Alayne or Mya could blink, both the wolf and his boy disappeared into the darker part of the woods.

“He did not mean that,” Mya tried to comfort her, patting Sansa’s hand. “Rickon loves you more than himself, it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Give him a couple of days and he’ll know that too.”

“No. He is right. I forgot when I lost Lady.”

 _I’m a Stark_ , she reminded herself. _Daughter to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, sister to Young Wolf who was King in the North. My name is Sansa Stark and it is high time I remembered._

She would never forget it again.

Two days later she faced the monster from her people’s rumours. And when she did, Sansa ran against her better judgement towards the white direwolf that belonged to her lost half-brother. She ran to touch the animal and make sure if it was truly Ghost, to look in his red eyes. And when she did, they told her everything she didn’t yet know about Lord Commander Jon Snow and the battle with strange, cold creatures.

That night, she cried herself to sleep in Mya’s arms, missing her least favourite brother.

*

She wondered once if it meant that Ghost had become hers, replacing Lady and letting Sansa replace Jon.

It was after that day that she dreamt of Bran for the first time.

“Don’t be silly, sweetest sister,” laughed the bird, flying down to sit on her shoulder. His sharp claws dug into her flesh painfully, causing it to bleed. “Lady was yours and then you lost her. She’s dead now and that’s it. You will never be full again like Rickon or Arya can be. Ghost might protect you and them, he may help you see things you were blind to for so long... but he can never be a part of your mind.”

“I don’t understand,” she admitted, trying to free herself, but the crow only strengthened his hold of her arm. The blood stained her yellow dress heavily.

“Of course you don’t,” Sansa heard him whisper into her ear. “As I said, you’ll never be like them... and right now you’re not even of the North. There is no ice in your blood yet.”

“I’m trying, Bran. I am, really. But it’s hard... I haven’t seen our home in so long...” she saw her tears mix with the blood. How could she be Northern? With all that had happened...

Her brother nodded, blinking with two of his eyes. The third one stayed open, staring at her with all truths of the world written in it. She only noted some, but it was still more than enough.

“You ought to try. Again and again, until it’s done. And that success will be your downfall.”

*

It took Harry a fortnight to return and a moon to leave once again, this time for Gulltown. She knew what was happening. Oh, he fancied himself in love with her, alright. But men like her husband were far more interested in what marriage was according to the songs, not the reality of it. After the first few moons of their wedding, constant travels became for him a way of escaping their admittedly prosaic, though agreeable everyday life. Sansa would’ve had a harder time forgiving Harry for such immaturity, but it could not be denied, that a lot of his motives were horribly familiar. And when he was at the Gates, her husband always treated her as if she was Jenny of Oldstones herself, showering her with expensive gifts and proving to still love her as much as he did at the day of their wedding. His disappearances gave her a lot of time to spend with Rickon, Mya and Randa too, something that pleased her a great deal. (It pleased her far less that she was therefore also given the chance to tend to now critically sick Robert Arryn and to receive more lectures from Littlefinger. She avoided the latter with any means possible.)

Mya became Rickon and Shaggydog’s only companion whenever Harry was around. Sansa was more thankful for their developing friendship than she was willing to admit, but it also caused her to cherish the quiet moments in their chambers with only her best friend even more.

She raised her head from the wolf’s head she was embroidering on Rickon’s new cloak to see Mya staring at her chest with wide eyes.

“Why are you… Mya, what are you doing?”

The other girl immediately averted her gaze, flustered.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she mumbled. “Your… um… your breasts. That is. They’re bigger than before, Lady Hardyng.”

 _Lady Hardyng_? Sansa looked down. Her breasts have been large ever since before she travelled to the Eyrie and had only grown during her stay in the Vale of Arryn. But it hadn’t happened for at least year. She was a woman of almost seventeen now, not likely to develop any further.

And yet, Mya was right.

“Have you been bleeding lately? Since Harry left for Ironoaks?”

“No, of course not. Don’t you remember? We always bleed in the same days.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

“But you didn’t the last time I did.”

Sansa gaped at the girl, pleading with her eyes for… she could not say what. Something. A chance that it might be a silly mistake after all, maybe.

This was supposed to be the best news in so many years. Was this not what she had been trying to accomplish for moons now? But somehow, Sansa didn’t remember the last time she had been this terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Lady Alayne  
> Year 303 AL  
> Time period: 1 year  
> Characters: Alayne Hardyng, Rickon Stark, Bran Stark, Harry Hardyng, Petyr Baelish, Mya Stone, Ghost, Myranda Royce, Robert Arryn,
> 
> In my defense, writing this chapter's been kind of awkward since Harry was my nickname back in high school.


	8. Florians and Jonquils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame my inability to write faster on The 100. (And if you're not watching it then go do it now because, damn. Seriously, don't even waste your time on my fic. Watch the show. Shoo. You can thank me later.)  
> Also, I'm not thrilled with this, possibly.

-Nan-

_303 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

„Nan?”

She turned her head on the cot, to glance at her friend. Bella’s entire body was turned towards her, but for some reason the girl avoided her gaze.

„Yes?”

„Why are you here? Truly?”

The question caught her off guard. She had been working at the Peach for moons, guarding the girls, never once asked about the motives. She had considered Bella her friend.

“What do you mean: why am I here?” she snapped, irritated. “It’s winter and we all need to eat. There is work in here and a decent payment too, especially for those times. Are you blaming me for wanting to live through this?”

“That’s not what I meant,” replied Bella defensively. “You should know by now I’ve grown to love you as if you were my own sister. I cannot help but wonder, though. You stayed here almost by accident, as it would seem. A girl wielding a sword. It’s a pretty blade, I can tell. My brother would surely love to see it. So… what are you doing with it?”

All of a sudden, Nan felt guilty. She’d never expected Bella to care for her that much. People usually didn’t. But, she guessed, the girls from the Peach weren’t just “people”.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted then. “The sword… it is mine, I think. It feels mine. I don’t remember ever being without it.”

Her friend was staring at her in shock.

“What do you mean: you don’t remember? Do you not know…”

She shook her head, hiding her face in the thin pillow. _If I cry now, I don’t want her to see me._ But Bella’s hands found her nevertheless, brushing strands of hair from her face with surprising sensitivity.

“Oh, Nan, dear” she sighed, embracing her gently. “I’m so sorry. I should not have asked.”

“It’s not a problem” countered the girl, immediately sitting up. “Don’t pity me. I hate that.”

She held her friend’s hand in hers. Even in the dark she could easily see the differences between them. Though significantly larger, Bella’s hand somehow also seemed softer and more womanly. Hers was full of scabs and little scars and her nails were uneven. Hand of a street rat.

“I don’t know what I’m doing” she confessed lowly. “And I don’t know why I forgot. It seems like there was a wall separating me from my memories and whenever I try to breach it… it’s like someone’s screaming at me not to. Not just someone. It’s me. The one who knows what’s on the other side. As if there was a good reason for me not to remember. As if something too horrible has happened. But I _need_ to know. I must.”

She didn’t tell Bella why. Maybe it was because she hardly understood that herself. ‘ _There is a bird and a wolf. There is a man with white hair and a red shirt. There is another one with a solemn look on his face._ _And I dream of them every night.’_ That was no explanation at all.

“I think I was here before. And, besides that, there is no better place to gain information than a brothel, isn’t it? That’s at least what I’d learned in Braavos, from Lanna’s mother and Merry. And maybe that Brotherhood without Banners will show up at some point; Tansy is certainly waiting for them to come and help out. I feel like they might have some answers.”

She decided not to reveal how she recognized the name Gendry. From what she’s heard of him, the man seemed to be a loving brother to Bella, but she knew better than to put faith in strangers, even if they hadn’t always been that.

“Come.” She slid off the bed, reaching for her shoes. “Twilight’s near. Almost time for both of us to work.”

*

The snow in front of her was covered in red stains. She sniffed it carefully.

Human blood, and fresh. These incidents had started to become suspiciously frequent. They must’ve realized she only had a taste for a certain kind of meat. The wolf growled in fury, followed by her pack.

The crow sat next to the bloodstains, looking at them as if it were grain. She sniffed again, without getting any closer. The bird had no smell. No smell at all.

And then it leapt at her.

But as it did, she realized she was no longer a wolf, but rather herself again, and unable to move. She tried to scream, but no sound was made and the crow clawed at her face, tearing off whole chunks of skin, again and again. Blood splashed her knees and the bird continued, until she thought she could no longer take it. And suddenly, she was alone, with chunks of different faces lying on her lap, torn.

As she stood up, something caught her attention. The surface of the puddle of blood by her feet has become smooth, enough to serve as a looking glass, and now she could see the remains of her own face in it.

But what she saw finally caused her to scream with horror.

She suddenly woke up, finding herself on a musty cot she shared with Helly, in the last moment stopping herself from continuing to shout and waking up the entire inn.

She could not stop shaking. Her face… the dream was already becoming unclear, but one thing was certain. Whatever she saw in that reflection was a nightmare. But, at the same time, a nightmare that just had to happen.

As she was already falling asleep again, she noticed a shadow settle oneself by the window. The bird cocked his head, staring at her intently.

 _‘His eye_ ,’ she realized. ‘ _Gods, that thing has a third eye_.’

It was the last thing she thought of before drifting off, and when she woke up a couple of hours later, she hardly remembered anything.

*

Some of the soldiers decided to march on towards either Casterly Rock or Harrenhal, leaving less than half of the party by the Stoney Sept. Thanks to that the town’s remaining people were able to finally take a deeper breath – including Tansy and her girls.

Counting herself as a part of that last group, Nan finally managed to concentrate on something else than guarding her friends: Needle. She would examine the sword whenever she had a moment for herself, hoping to find anything that could tell her where the steel was forged and for whom. It was, though, the source of her greatest concern.

The blade was small and thin, made for a quick and agile fencer such as her. Nan had spent enough time in Braavos to know that that was also how its people would make their swords, suited for water dancing rather than the typical crude swordplay of Westeros. Still, Needle didn’t feel like a creation from any of the Free Cities. Rather than that, it felt like it possessed all the answers she needed. Whatever they were.

And, most of all, Needle was Jon.

It was a name she came to remember during one of the most boring days, as she was watching the crows circle around the yard, waiting for game. Jon was the owner of the face she dreamed of as well as a brother of hers, she was almost certain, and closely connected to the sword too. She figured it must’ve been his at some point. Jon. Her dreams were always connected to him in some way or the other, though she hardly ever remembered how. ‘ _I must believe he loves me still. I must believe he needs me.’_

It was what the freak of a crow had seemed to promise her; that she is needed, after all these years. She wasn’t willing to believe that at first, but the idea of a loving brother was far too appealing to withstand it. A sibling… that was almost as much as a _home_.

“Nan!” Leslyn’s voice cut through the air.

She looked up, alarmed. There was a commotion near the door: one of the soldiers was dragging Cass out the door by her hair, though she’d tried to resist. Tansy and Leslyn were there too, attempting to calm him down, but their efforts seemed to only work against them. At some point the man started threatening the women with a fist – the same one he held Cass’ hair in.

“I paid you the goddamn money, woman!”

Nan stood by Tansy’s side, putting her left hand on the hilt of her bared sword.

“Is he causing trouble?”

What a dumb question. Of course he was.

“Cass wants to back down, but he won’t take the money,” Leslyn hastily whispered in her ear, unrest deepening the wrinkles on her still comely face. “Tansy even offered him Lanna instead and it didn’t work either. He’s too damn stubborn, that one. Said Cass is the only one that looks like his wife and it would feel like betrayal to bed another.”

Nan glanced at the soldier. He was a big man, with long hair so dirty it was hard to tell its color and angry dark eyes. Must’ve only now gotten to the Stoney Sept, fresh from battles.

“Let her go!” she ordered, pressing the end of her sword to his belly. It was always the best method when dealing with customers.

“He’ll be back,” told her Tansy, as they locked the door behind the would-be customer. “Tomorrow if not tonight. If not in a moment.”

“You’re right,” admitted Nan, glancing through the almost closed window. “Barricade the entrances. I’ll knock five times and then once to signalize everything is alright. Don’t allow anyone in otherwise.”

“Nan...”

She smiled at the woman nervously. Tansy squeezed her shoulder.

“Don’t get killed. I don’t like it when my girls die.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

She put on her coat. It was just colorless enough to make her invisible in the dark forest that separated the army’s camp and Stony Sept. The man she was chasing wasn’t far off, still visibly tipsy and very easy to spot in his yellow and blue cloak. He must’ve been at least twice as heavy as she was and a foot or so taller.

It mattered not. That night, he was a dead man.

She hid the body with Cass’ help. The girl felt guilty, she knew.

“It’s not your fault, you realize that, yeah?” she ensured her, as they were walking back to town. “He was looking for trouble. Had you not resisted it might have ended badly.”

It was good to know that at least some of the people she killed were awful at heart. That had they not been murdered, they would’ve harmed those who didn’t deserve it.

It was very, very good indeed.

*

The man’s death was hardly the end of the story, though. Not a day later two of his companions came to the Peach looking for him, both angry and with their swords drawn and while Tansy managed to come up with decent lies, they did not leave content.

“They’re growing anxious,” she told Nan that afternoon, when they were checking just how much their back doors can take. “Apparently one of their people had disappeared a while back, and while then they thought nothing of it, now they are starting to consider it more and more suspicious. One disappearance might be a coincidence, two not so much, they say. And with that, I agree.”

Nan glanced at her, only to realize the woman was watching her attentively. She flinched under her gaze, uneasy and focused instead on tapping the door-frame with her foot.

“I know you did something for Gold Lanna,” the woman said. “She hinted at it once or twice, though never gave me any details. I know what I hired you for, girl. To protect them, yes. But Lanna... on all the gods, sometimes I wonder if it was truly a good idea to take her in. She is very beautiful, no doubt, and all the men love to bed her. Almost half the coin I earn comes from that child. But I’ve never met anyone so... so poisonous. She can make you do anything for her. And you did.”

Nan kicked the back door with a little more force than earlier. It needed checking, after all.

“She is my friend. Not the best person, I know. Still, she needed help and I gave it to her. No one made me.”

The crow sat on a snowdrift next to them. She thought she heard it laughing, but that was just ridiculous. Birds don’t laugh.

The next day, six of the soldiers came for answers.

It was also the day Tansy finally decided to send her stable boy to search for the Brotherhood.

*

After the second death things had gotten and stayed ugly. She could see that all too well in Cass’ guilty look, in Bella’s tired posture, in Lanna’s unsmiling face. She wished she could’ve done something, anything to ensure their safety, but there was no place she could’ve taken them to and the girls probably wouldn’t have agreed to go anyway. They were much too brave and stubborn for their sake.

 _‘But Red Lanna tried to help them, didn’t she. And the soldiers raped and murdered her and left the woman’s butchered body in front on the marked square next to the Peach for everyone to see.’_ Nan heard that story from a drunk, tearful Helly during one of their evenings in the cold basement. Red Lanna was like a mother to her, and Leslyn’s best friend, but nobody ever raged about that injustice. Nobody ever cared what happened to a whore.

It was peculiar that the Sailor’s Wife had sent her only daughter in such a dreadful place. Nan almost hated her old friend for it.

But then again, if there was anyone who could survive in such a place, it was certainly Lanna.

*

That night she dreamt her nightmare once more. The man with white hair and red shirt was there and so was the other her. This time, however, the crow flew down from the black sky and buried his claws in the girl’s head, attacking her with great fury. And then, she could finally hear. She heard the man’s words.

She should have known it could never end well.

The girl with her face found her when she was lying on the ground, having already shed too many tear to keep crying, and hoisted her up.

“Now you see why,” she said.

And Arya allowed herself to forget once more. How could she not? She now knew the alternative.

The stable boy came back a fortnight later. And soon after that the men outside of her dreams had red all over their shirts as well.

*

She did not expect them to come so fast. She doubted anybody did, with how Tansy described the lot to her.

It was a lazy late morning, with most soldiers either sleeping or still drunk. Jyzene was busy making a daily batch of moon tea for all the girls, Tansy and Leslyn talked in hushed voices in the corner, most likely discussing their current money situation and the rest sat on the floor by the counter, watching Nan and Lanna teach them the rules of cyvasse. (They didn’t have an actual board of pieces, so acorns, pine cones and a rug had to suffice. I wasn’t going spectacularly.)

In a moment, the whole town was filled with screams. Later, Nan would thank the gods, Old and the New, that none of her friends actually happened to venture outside that morning.

As far as she remembered, Nan had never seen a proper battle. Therefore, she was not even close to prepared for the event. Tansy helped her gather all the girls in one of the rooms upstairs where they then barricaded themselves, but just as Nan decided that their fortifications are strong enough for her to abandon them for a moment and take a look outside, the horrible noises outside suddenly stopped. She peered onto the main room, creeping down the stairs. They were old and creaky, but Nan has already leaned where to step to avoid making any noise.

The room would’ve been empty if not for two men, facing each other, both with knives in their hands. They failed to notice her and she didn’t recognize either of them, but one must’ve been from the Brotherhood.

 _‘Look with your eyes’_ , she reminded herself. The man further from her was younger of the two and rather handsome despite being clothed in grayish rags. He held the blade in an unsure manner, as if it was not his preferred weapon. She glanced at his opponent. His back was to her, only showing her rusty parts of an armor and a thick mop of graying hair. The man’s clothes were not much more decent, but there was far less dirt on them.

Nan struck fast.

It was so, so easy. He fell down holding to his side, trying to stop the bleeding. Maybe the wound wasn’t mortal. Maybe he would live. She raised her sword once more, pointing it at the other man.

“Drop your knife. Who are you with?”

He smiled at her then, showing a lot of very white teeth. His red hair seemed to shine even in the faint light of the corridor.

“The Brotherhood, of course. Have you not heard? I’m Anguy, the Archer. You must be Nan.”

*

The Brotherhood left few of the soldiers alive and a greater part of those was taken for questioning. They were carried away to one of the largest rooms upstairs, led there by two of the brothers introduced to her as Beardless Dick and Jack-Be-Lucky. Tansy took off as well, leaving with a peculiar priest dressed in robes that must have once been red, who Jyzene called Thoros of Myr. (Nan knew several people from the city, but he looked nothing like that colorful folk.) After that, Helly and Bella were asked to help Melly, a woman from the Brotherhood, to help her with tending to several of the wounds and she was left alone, taking the scene in.

It was not a pretty sight. The whole market square was filled with corpses, not all of them belonging to soldiers. The familiar stench of dead people was already beginning to spread.

One of the younger brothers stopped by her.

“Do you know where Bella is?”

“Busy,” she explained, deeming him unharmed. “Unless you’ve secretly been stabbed, that is. Lanna, Cass and Leslyn are the only ones working today.”

His face got all red and only then did she notice the black mop of his hair and the same blue eyes Bella had. How was it possible that none of the girls noticed how similar those two were? How was it possible that she didn’t realize it immediately either?

“You’re Gendry,” she told him, as if he didn’t know. “Your sister’s all right, but Melly needed help with healing the wounded, so she won’t be available for a while yet. Better ask someone in the afternoon.”

He nodded, staring at her with surprise on his face and only then did she remember that she wasn’t supposed to know who he truly was.

“I’m Nan. Bella told me about you two being siblings a couple of moons ago. Just me, though. Don’t ask why.”

As they both went their ways to continue helping to tame the chaos, she suddenly reminded herself that the man’s name was already written in her memory, so long ago that she almost could not remember it anymore. And when she turned back to glance at the hefty figure carrying armor stolen from the corpses, she could say without a doubt, that it was this exact Gendry she had once known.

And even if she wasn’t sure, one look at the crow sitting on the oblivious man’s arm was more than enough.

*

The Brotherhood stayed with them for another fortnight, consuming almost all of the supplies they had brought with them. Soon, she realized many were actually intending to stay in town for a longer while yet. And in that case, Tansy and the girls would have no need for the likes of _her_. After all, Greenbeard’s and his men’s protection could be paid for in a coin the Peaches could afford even in the worst of times. And Nan, no matter how hard she might have tried, would never become twenty huge men.

 _‘Do not worry about that,_ ’ told her the bird once, as she was running through the woods on four paws. _‘That woman would never tell you to go, even if she might want you to leave. She knows how much in need you are.’_

She hated that damned crow more and more with each passing night. He always told her things like that, as if they could make her feel better.

They never did.

But those words of Tansy holding her tongue, secretly wanting her to go away, that stayed with her. And before she knew it, she was packing.

She had no idea where Jon is. During the last moons of her stay in the Peach any time she thought of him it was with a touch of pain, though she could not see why. And if anyone had answers, it must’ve been someone she once knew.

Bella once told her that Gendry was one of the very few truly good men this world had left.

“All the others already died,” she had said then, shaking her head full of ink black ringlets. “The awful ones are always best at surviving in times like these. But my little brother is an exception. He’ll help you, if you ask.”

Nan didn’t wanted to be helped, though. She would rather help someone else and be given something in return.

“Bella tells me you live with over twenty orphaned children. Are you sure they’re perfectly safe?”

The blacksmith looked up from the set of armor he’d been packing. He seemed rather startled.

“It’s Westeros,” he growled, throwing a tied sack onto a wagon. “They wouldn’t be safe behind a hundred walls and with an army of thousands guarding them. Which of course isn’t possible ‘coz they’re orphans, so no army gives a shit ‘bout them. Why d’you ask?”

She grinned to herself – and maybe a little to annoy him too, since it seemed so easy. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Well. It appears I am in a great need of occupation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Nan  
> Year: 303 AL  
> Time period: 2 moons  
> Characters: Nan, Tansy, Bella, Lanna, Leslyn, Cass, The Crow, soldiers, Brotherhood, Gendry, Anguy
> 
> No, it def doesn't show at all that I live for lady friendships. Nope.  
> 


	9. A Thoughtful Husband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. But this is super long, at least, and I do hope to update sooner than in two months.  
> Also, with Sansa's new chapter released, my story has officially become an AU (fyi, the Mercy chap is included as a part of this universe).

_-Sansa Stark-_

_304 years after Aegon the Conqueror’s landing_

It was a strange feeling, knowing there is something foreign inside you, growing every day. Sansa wanted nothing more than to love her child, but no matter how much she prayed for it, the feeling refused to come.

“The gods are punishing me for my sins,” she told Myranda, who only laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alayne. Wait until you give birth before acting like a septon or worse, one of those ridiculous sparrows.”

But Randa had no children and did not particularly seem to want any either. Sansa on the other hand had craved for such blessing since before she could remember.

It was surprisingly pleasant to have her husband’s attention directed towards her, though. Harry arrived to the Gates of the Moon as soon as he heard of her pregnancy and stayed there for the longest time yet. After moons of being slightly neglected, she welcomed the change gladly, even if it meant less time to spend with Mya, Rickon and Myranda.

Things quieted down for a moment allowing her to take a deeper breath. And then the inevitable came.

She was lying in her bed late at night, unable to fall asleep, uncomfortable in every position. Harry snored lightly next to her, his hand reaching towards her tummy.

“He likes you a lot,” she whispered to the baby, smiling. It was true. Her lord husband never refused their child affection or attention, even if it was still unborn. Sansa wondered if that admiration was going to last if she bore a daughter.

“My lady?”

She twisted her neck, startled. Maester Colemon was standing at the door, his clothes askew. He looked particularly distressed.

“It’s time.”

Sansa did not waste time putting on anything apart from a robe as she rushed outside, trying to ignore the cold. She couldn’t recall the last time everyone wasn’t freezing, but it must have been years since then.

“Wake my husband and have him join us in Lord Robert’s bedroom immediately,” she hastily ordered Ser Morgarth, who stood with another guard outside of their chamber. “Tell him it’s an emergency or he will not listen.”

She never liked having to wake Harry herself. He was not particularly pleasant when half asleep.

Sweetrobin was not conscious when she entered his chamber, having lost too much of his strength over the last couple of moons. She sat down on his bed, checking the boy’s heartbeat. She did not remember it ever being this weak.

“Yes,” she confirmed, though the maester certainly did not need her to do so. “It will happen no later than tomorrow.”

There were tears in her eyes, ones that she couldn’t stop. _It’s because of the baby_ , she told herself, _it is making you cry more than usually_. But it wasn’t just that. Robert might have not been much, but he was still a tiny bit of her family. And Sansa’s too, not just Alayne’s. She’d wished to see him grown and happy, with a family of his own, prayed for a miracle that would end his disease. And it didn’t happen.

Somebody touched her arm. She looked up to see Harry, already dressed, glancing at her with concern.

“My love, you should not be here for this,” he whispered to her gently, mentioning for her to stand up and leave. “Especially not in your delicate state. We cannot have our lord’s sickness affecting you and the child.”

Sansa shook her head, refusing to move. He didn’t even like Robert, never had, and the little lord bore no affection for him in return. Allowing the boy to pass away with no friendly souls around seemed a rather cruel deed.

“It is where my duties lie, dearest,” she announced, turning back to take her cousin’s hand. “Poor Robin should not have to die alone. He is still so young.”

It was almost alarming how easily her husband was always convinced. He needed to become of stronger mind if he was to rule over the Vale – and his time of freedom was up.

Maester Colemon stood on the other side of the bed.

“His lordship will be missed,” he added, his fingers playing nervously with the silver link from his collar. She did not doubt he meant the words. Maester was, apart from her, probably the only person who actually cared about the boy’s wellbeing.

_Robert. He was named after the late king, just like Robb._

Lord Baelish slipped into the room, unnoticed by most. They waited in silence, interrupted by the boy’s stertorous breathing.

Sansa had no idea how long she sat there, holding her dying cousin’s hand, with Harry on her left, desperately trying to keep his eyes open. It all didn’t seem to be set in any particular time.

It had to be near dawn when Petyr shook her by the waist, waking Sansa from a light sleep and pointing towards the small motionless form. Harry was laying fast asleep next to her, his head on her lap. Maester Colemon snored in a chair across the room. Apart from them, the chamber was empty. She reached to touch Robin’s forehead.

“It’s almost cold,” she whispered, more to herself than to Littlefinger. “He’s… it’s nearly cold. He’s gone.”

Tears came back to fill her eyes, but this time, she stopped them. She couldn’t let Lord Protector see her crying.

“It truly is a shame to see his lordship leave us so fast,” she declared instead, clearing her throat. “We will mourn him greatly.”

“No doubt,” Petyr smiled, piercing her with those cold eyes. “We will mourn him and cry and talk about how much we loved the late lord Arryn and how he will forever be remembered. And we won’t forget to address you properly from now on, my lady.”

His smirk widened and Sansa looked back at the corpse, unable to bear the truth it seemed to scream at her. _A sickly child, that’s what he’s always been, even before we came to the Vale. It has nothing to do with Petyr, it doesn’t._

Just like Jeyne Poole ended up married to Ramsay Bolton, the Monster. A coincidence.

Sansa wasn’t so stupid to believe that anymore.

“Love,” she touched Ser Harry’s arm, startling him awake. “Love, your cousin… I am afraid he has passed.”

It took him a moment, as usual, to properly regain consciousness, but once he did, her husband wasted little time hoisting her up and leading away from the scene.

“We will pay our respects later,” he decided, heading towards their bedrooms. “There is no point staying in that place anymore, now that he’s gone.”

Sansa understood that quite well. She too did not like the sight of dead things.

“It would be fitting, though, to honour Lord Arryn somehow, slightly more than it is absolutely necessary. Do you not think so, my dear?”

He glanced at her, visibly confused. She made an effort to appear pained. Harry usually had little patience for her sour moods, but this one he definitely couldn’t frown upon.

“Is there something you wish for?”

They both simultaneously looked at her already slightly swollen belly.

“It is a good, strong name. And granting it to our son will show people of the Vale that we cherish the memory of the late Lord Arryn. Sweetrobin would’ve been so happy to have a namesake too, I know,” she sighed to strengthen the effect.

Harry smiled, pulling lightly on a strand of her hair and kissing the tip of her nose.

“Sometimes I almost forget how smart my wife is. Nearly as much as she is pretty.”

“So you agree, then?”

Robb, they could call him Robb for short. _It would just happen, as if by accident_. That thought made her want to dance.

“If that is what my wife wishes for, then that will be what she is given. You are the Lady of the Eyrie, after all.”

She kissed him then, ignoring the lump in her throat that appeared at the mention of her new title.

Someone’s steps halted right in front of them. She pried herself from Harry to see Mya standing before them, eyes red from the lack of sleep. She stared for a moment, making Sansa feel surprisingly uncomfortable. It wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong, kissing her own husband in an empty corridor near their bedchamber, but suddenly, she found herself regretting it.

“I heard about poor Sweetrobin,” Mya’s words broke into her thoughts. “If you need anything, my lady, just ask. I know it must be painful to bear.”

Sansa nodded, stopping herself from biting her lip. It was highly unladylike; septa Mordane had constantly berated Arya for doing so. Still, she could not help but consider the idea of her best friend calling her such titles incredibly frustrating.

“Thank you, my sweet,” she sent the woman a strained smile. “Your concern means a great deal to me.”

 _Though an explanation of some of Mya’s behaviour would no doubt have been of more use,_ Sansa decided a moment later, as she and Harry were lying down for some much needed rest. There were times she simply did not understand her best friend.

Then again, those were also the times when she couldn’t read her own emotions either.

*

The funeral was a rather modest affair, though almost all of the lords decided to honour their late lord by coming. It was obvious, however, that they were interested far more in showing their devotion to Lord Harry.

Sansa tended to keep to herself during those days, escaping the mostly unfamiliar crowd in favour of reading Robin’s beloved tales in her chamber. It helped her anger Petyr, who wished for her to appear as Lady of the Vale, full of grace and soon to be blessed with a babe. But Sansa’s ankles tended to swell lately, making her far less graceful than usually, as well as moody. She had even snapped at her dear husband more times than she could count in the short time between Sweetrobin’s death and funeral, successfully pushing Harry away.

It was only moons later, after lord Baelish had left the Gates of the Moon to visit king Tommen in King’s Landing and Harry invited Lords Declarant to their home yet again, when Sansa finally decided it was time.

They were laying in their bed, Harry’s hand as usually placed on her stomach, when a sigh escaped her lips. She made sure it was loud enough.

He noticed, of course.

“Is there something bothering you, my lady?”

“Not with you next to me, dearest. I was simply wandering how long lord Baelish was planning on staying with Tommen.”

She saw him eye her then, startled.

“Tommen? As in –“ he stopped for a second, trying to find his tongue again. “You’re addressing the king by his first name?”

“He is but a boy,” Sansa noted, twisting her fingers in a nervous gesture. “And lovely enough not to be deserving the life he is given.”

At that, she turned away, snuggling deeper into the featherbed, ignoring her husband’s silent questions.

He was going to find out soon enough anyway.

The next night, Harry found her braiding her hair in the style common in Barrowton.

“Looks pretty,” he noted, visibly confused, sitting down on their bed. “Makes your hair shine red. I don’t remember ever seeing you with a braid like that before.”

She smiled wistfully. As if hair colour had anything to do with how you plaited it.

“It’s from the North,” she told him. “Or at least, that is how ladies there used to braid their hair a couple of years ago. I have little knowledge of their current fashions.”

A day later, as he was already falling asleep, she burst into tears in his arms.

“My love, dearest,” she whispered into his tunic. “I am scared.”

Her husband only brought her closer, humming sleepily.

“There is nothing to be afraid of, love.”

“I fear he did something to Sweetrobin. Lord Baelish.”

At that she had gotten his attention. Harry backed away slightly to look her in the eye, his expression suddenly awake and far more serious than usually.

“Lord – what? As in, Littlefinger? My cousin is dead, Alayne, and has been for months. Why are you troubling yourself with such unfounded suspicions? Your father would not have hurt poor Robert. He cared for him deeply.”

She started crying even more then, hiding her face in a pillow.

“Oh, my sweet... how long I have wanted to tell you, but felt his shadow on my back! My lord, it has pained me greatly to spread such lies with his encouragement, but no longer can I force myself to blind my beloved.”

She sat up on the bed, shooting him a tearful look that he answered with his own, confused and angry one.

“What is this? Why are you talking of lies and deception? Have you –“

“I am no man’s bastard, love. It was but a story created to protect me after the murder of Joffrey Baratheon. My true name is Sansa Stark.”

Her voice was steady and unwavering, but Harry still stared at her as if she’d told him a dragon had swallowed them both whole while he was falling asleep.

“Sansa Stark. You.”

She grabbed his hand, leaning towards him.

“Please my lord, you must believe me. I am the eldest daughter of the late lord Eddard Stark and his wife, lady Catelyn, who– who was betrayed and slain in the Twins alongside my brother Robb, King in the North. On them, I swear: it is all true.”

“The King Who Lost the North, you mean,” Harry corrected, and the words sounded hollow in the silent chamber, making her flinch. “Why would I believe your words, Alayne? You’ve given me no reason to.”

“Nor have I given you reasons not to,” she reminded him, reservedly. “What purpose would I have with such lies? I’ve married you already, your heir lies under my breast. I posses no need to present myself as of more noble blood, my lord. No need but that of being honest with the man whom I have vowed to love for the rest of my days. Will you reject my truth, husband? Will you refuse to recognize that you have married a lady of House Stark, sister to a king, not a natural born child of Lord Baelish? One would think that such news ought to bring you joy, not grief.”

“And others would think I married a traitor’s daughter, as well as a kingslayer,” he declared, sitting up as well. His dark blue eyes were the coldest she’s ever seen them at. “Are you willing to deny that, wife?”

“Most likely. Years of having to proclaim my family to be treacherous are far behind me. My Lord Father was an honourable man and so was my brother. They are guilty of no betrayal.”

They stayed silent for an uncomfortably long moment.

“You have not addressed the poisoning of King Joffrey, though.”

“But I have told you what I fear happened to Sweetrobin.”

She stood up, swaying a little, and walked to get herself some water. Her handmaiden Maddy always left a jug for her overnight, now that she couldn’t drink wine.

“If you have decided to hate me from now on, I will understand,” she informed him quietly. “But know, that I did not harm Joffrey, no matter how much he enjoyed harming me. Someone else did though and whoever that was, they had Lord Baelish’s help. Are you really surprised to hear of my concern for young Robert? He was my cousin too.”

If Sansa had hoped to tame him with those words, she was completely mistaken. Harry’s face was becoming more and more unwelcoming, making her glad she was no longer sitting close to him.

“And what of your first husband, _lady Stark_? What of the Imp? Does he not make our marriage a joke? Our child a bastard? It is a crime in the eyes of gods –“

“To be married to two men at once, yes,” she finished for him, sipping her water. “And so should be forcing people who do not wish to be together into a marriage. I came to our wedding bed a maiden, my love, you of all people should know that best. Lord Tyrion has disappeared from this world years ago, long before our wedding. In the eyes of both gods and men he is dead, just like my father and mother and brother. It is not a sin to wed a widow, but I was never even that.”

Sansa had no idea if that last part was true. Tyrion might have just as well been at the very moment playing cyvasse somewhere in Dorne, enjoying a cup of their finest red wine he’d appeared to love so much. She hoped that was his fate. And yes, it seemed probable that the gods were punishing her for it. Mayhap that was why she has such problems with loving her firstborn. But she couldn’t have Harry thinking such things.

She came back to the bed, sitting back in her place by her husband’s side.

“Dearest, I cannot voice how much it pains me that you have not known the truth this entire time. Lord Baelish ordered me to call myself his bastard born daughter and I did, but that is no excuse for my deed. Tell me though; can you love your wife Sansa Stark like you have loved Alayne Stone?”

Harry hesitated before speaking, but that mattered not. She had known the answer for years.

“Accidentally marrying a highborn lady. Or are you a princess? Either way, I suppose that would make quite a song. Maybe it will.”

He was prepared to forgive her everything long before he even knew her real name.

*

Sansa had feared and avoided Lords Declarant since the day she defended Lord Petyr Baelish from them, considering the bunch hostile towards her cause. So when they finally all arrived, once again flooding their small yard, Sansa first retorted to eluding from them in the most courteous way there was. It did not help that Petyr’s absence was giving her probably the only chance to confess the truth on her own terms, not his. She wanted this, her words, honest and not tainted with one of Littlefinger’s tricks.

Only, Lords Declarant were not Harry Hardyng. They were not convinced they loved her, nor were they inclined to forgive easily years of being lied to. Mya suggested presenting them Rickon, but Sansa immediately rejected the idea. She even avoided bringing him up when talking to Harry, afraid that things might go downhill and her brother becomes a prisoner like she once was. That could not happen no matter what.

“Do you really think they won’t tell the queen about you?” asked her Mya, as they were sitting with Rickon in the pine forest, enjoying a second breakfast of salted pork on bread. (Sansa had long ago stopped caring about crumbs and manners during those meals. It was quite pointless, after all.)

“They will not. I’ve been here for years now, under their noses. I married their lord and now carry his heir. Queen Cersei would see that as an act of betrayal, letting me live in peace for so long. If they write her, it won’t be just my head on a spike, but all of theirs as well.”

“Seems a little exaggerated.”

“It’s King’s Landing.”

Rickon glanced at them from his spot at Shaggydog’s side. He tore apart some of the meat, throwing one half towards his direwolf. At that gesture, Ghost appeared silently from behind a bush. Amongst all the snow he was almost impossible to spot. Combining that with his ability to move soundlessly through the woods, he turned out to be completely unnoticeable. Sansa liked that about him; it allowed her to worry less. She was still awkward around the animal though, most of the time not knowing how to approach him. Unlike Shaggy, Ghost appeared perfectly peaceful, even if she knew both of them were more than capable of and almost certainly have killed armed men.

“We will just show them the wolves,” Rickon insisted, forming a tiny snowman from the white powder at his feet. He looked around and picked a twig to use it instead of a creature’s sword. “They will listen to you after that.”

Sansa frowned at his words.

“But not because they will want to. I do not wish to force people into obedience. They are not slaves. And your snowman still doesn’t have a shield.”

She stood up, taking Mya’s hand and hoisting her up.

“Come on. My husband has decided to have a feast this evening and taking how his taste in those clashes with Myranda’s ideas, I reckon we ought to see if they haven’t yet ripped each other’s throats out fighting. It would be a shame to lose them both before dessert; the cook is making a lemon cake for the first time in two years.”

They gathered their things and bid farewell to her brother, heading towards the castle. Still, as they walked, Sansa could not help but feel guilty for having said such words about Queen Regent. Not that they weren’t true – it all did seem like the most probable reaction. But she had said so with a certainty that was not at all honest. She was afraid of being sold out. Only claiming that taking the risk still seemed like a favourable option than remaining under the care Petyr Baelish did not sound like something she might have wanted to say out loud.

They crossed the yard, greeting Ser Wallace Waynwood and politely ignoring his stutter, only to bump into Lord Yohn not a moment later. The man eyed her sharply, before slightly bowing his head.

“Pardon me, my lady, I did not see you.”

She curtseyed, smiling.

“Nor we you, my lord and that, dare I say, is rather hard to achieve. The fault is all mine.”

She watched him snort quietly, squinting his eyes, almost completely obscured by his eyebrows. (Myranda swore they were more bushy every time he visited.)

“A fair statement. I have been looking for someone though; can you point me in the direction of your father? There are certain things we need to discuss.”

 _As if he didn’t know Petyr’s gone to King’s Landing._ Sansa took a sweet moment to consider confronting him openly, before settling for a more reasonable approach.

“It grieves me to say that Lord Baelish has left a moon ago to pay our beloved king a visit. He ought to be back with us in less than a fortnight though, so if you wish to speak to him only, my lord, I welcome you to stay with us until then. But, as you may remember, the Vale no longer has a Lord Protector. If the issue is connected to less personal matters, it might be more wise to direct them to my husband, the actual Lord of the Eyrie. Or, in his absence, its Lady.”

They stared at each other for a moment, before Yohn nodded. He might have smirked, but Sansa was not so sure; the beard hid that quite well.

“I won’t pretend, such news does not bring me sorrow,” he admitted. “Littlefinger is not someone I tend to miss.”

She knew that. Everyone knew that. What she still wasn’t sure of was who or what he had been trying to distract people from with his behaviour.

*

The feast was rather grand, she noticed, to Myranda’s great displeasure. She was probably right to be upset with the outcome, Sansa mused, watching the cook bring forward a large, beautifully decorated lemon cake. They were halfway through winter, in the worst possible time for splendid events. But then again, spending so many years with nothing to look forward to did seem like a quite gloomy perspective.

Lord Jasper Redfort appeared at her side, offering to cut her a slice of some foreign cheese brought from Gulltown.

“I must refuse, unfortunately,” she told him, smiling sheepishly. “The child does not seem to enjoy such delicacies.”

“What a shame. When is it due?”

So that was what he came to find out. Sansa eyed him for a short moment. Petyr had oft called Horton Redfort a dangerous man and there was certainly something about his son that seemed to say that he might’ve inherited such trait. She suddenly felt relieved she refused the food he offered.

“Soon, my lord. We shall have an heir in less than a moon.”

“Unless it happens to be a girl.”

He returned to his seat, leaving her lost in thought.

In truth, Sansa had never considered the possibility of bearing a girl. It was quite stupid, certainly, but the idea of little Robb blinded her completely. But what if the child wasn’t a boy? She glanced at Harry, who was sitting on her left, conversing with Ser Donnel and Ser Shadrich. Would he want a daughter inheriting his seat?

Myranda noticed her unease.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she decided, taking a sip of wine. “They say girls make their mothers look like dead cows and you still appear positively radiant. Even your hair shines like copper. Besides, even if it won’t be a son, why can’t your daughter become his heir? Lady Anya Waynwood, the woman who raised your husband, rules over Ironoaks, does she not?”

“Ironoaks is not the Vale. Harry is not only Lord of the Eyrie, but also Warden of the East. No lady would be allowed to bear that title.”

Her friend snorted.

“No lady who would need such permission, you mean.”

“You’re probably right anyway. It is going to be a boy.”

Lemon cake arrived before them and the conversation died out, as Sansa dug into the dessert eagerly.

It had to be a boy. There was no Arya or Catelyn Arryn, after all.

*

She made herself at home in Petyr’s solar, glancing around to see if he’d left anything interesting, any letters or documents that he might have kept around, but found nothing of value. It didn’t particularly surprise her; Lord Baelish was a meticulous man, almost as much as he was secretive.

“Are you in need of assistance, my lady?”

Sansa whipped around, quickly closing the desk drawer she had been going through. Ser Shadrich was standing by the door, his eyebrows raised, mouth twisted in a smirk that had always unnerved her. She sat down on Littlefinger’s chair, mentioning for the knight to come in.

“It is kind of you to ask, especially since I do happen to be. There is something that must be discussed with Lords Declarant. Bring them here, as well as Mya and Myranda.”

“Lord Baelish will not be content to hear that you have decided to reveal your true name in his absence,” Ser Shadrich noted, giving her a thoughtful look. At her shocked expression, he scoffed lightly, putting his right hand on the tilt of his sword.

“Do not worry, lady Sansa, I haven’t contemplated selling you to Queen Regent in years. A bag of gold is sweet, but Littlefinger pays generously too and in those times transporting anyone through half the Westeros happens to be quite the trouble. My sword might be sharp, but there is only so much a single knight can achieve. And seeing your head on a spike would bring me no joy either.”

Sansa nodded, gripping the arms of her chair to make her hands stop trembling. _No, this is good, it means Lord Yohn must have recognised me too_ , she told herself, taking a deep breath.

“I’m glad to hear you do not wish me ill, ser,” she announced, her voice only slightly shaky. “Your silence is appreciated, as well as your honesty, even if it came so late. Please bring me Mya first.”

Something in his face changed and for a moment she wondered if this man was destined to always know her secrets, even those she didn’t realize herself. But then Ser Shadrich nodded, cocky smile back on its place, and left to carry out her order.

Mya arrived not long after, closing the door behind her and rushing to hold Sansa’s hand.

“Please tell me to bring Rickon in. Him and Shaggydog and that other one too. You’ll be safer that way. Nobody will dare threaten a direwolf.”

She shook her head, intertwining their fingers.

“No, we must not endanger them. I haven’t even told Harry about my brother yet and I need you here right now, with me.” Harry had stayed with Ser Donnel by the table even after the feast had ended, wanting to discuss the growing problems with the Milk Snakes that might have been a threat to Petyr’s returning party. Sansa wasn’t sure how to feel about the possibility of her alleged father being murdered by one of the mountain clans, but the threat had kept her husband busy and, with Lords Declarant leaving so soon, gave her an excuse not to include him in the crucial conversation. With his notorious indecisions, it was better to keep him away in such a moment.

They waited in silence as people filled the chamber, all staring her down, expecting.

“I thank you, my lords, my lady, for coming here when I asked for it,” she started, feeling her heart hammering in her chest.

Ser Symond cleared his throat.

“Thanking is unnecessary,” he grunted, pulling his beard in an impatient gesture. “Unlike an explanation.”

“Lady Hardyng owes you neither,” snapped Lord Eustace Hunter, glaring at the knight. Sansa glanced at him quickly.

“That might be,” she admitted. “But as Sansa Stark, I do consider myself in need of some clarification.”

She squeezed Mya’s fingers and then continued, taking advantage of the silence that took place after her words.

“Since Lord Baelish left a while ago, I have been free to reveal certain truths to my husband and your liege. He has been forgiving and bears no resentment towards me for being forced to hide who I was. While it would be understandable to have problems with accepting my identity, I must urge you to keep it a secret. Assuming of course, that you have done so before.”

She paused, giving them chance to react, but no response came. _Why weren’t they saying anything?_ Gods, she was wrong. They would write to Cersei Lannister and she’d send Meryn Trant or Ilyn Payne to bring her back...

“Lord Yohn,” she turned towards the man, praying for his mercy. “I remember you from King’s Landing. You attended the tourney late King Robert threw for my father, Eddard Stark, when he came to the city to become the next Hand of the King. Two of your sons fought there too. I was but a young girl at the time, but the memories are still fresh.”

Sansa gripped her swollen stomach, trying to draw strength from it and leaned forward in her chair.

“I am not blind, my lords, and neither are any of you. The Vale is where my father was raised and where my aunt resided for years. My mother visited these lands shortly before her death. Now I am standing before you, giving you truth only and asking for the same in return and yet you dare deny it? On your deceased lord, my cousin, whom I have taken care of for years, remaining his sole friend, on him I swear to be sincere. Is that not enough to convince you of something you already ought to know?”

Lady Anya sat on the other side of the desk, her lips pressed tight.

“No one here is doubting your blood, lady Sansa,” she told her reservedly. “Many, maybe all of us, remember the day Catelyn Stark brought Tyrion Lannister to the Vale for his trial. She was not as lovely of face as you are, but it did not stop me from recognising you and Lord Yohn only confirmed those suspicions when I consulted him after first meeting you in the Eyrie. Do you think a child of common blood would be allowed to marry our lord? No matter how high the dowry was, it would not happen. Whoever you are, though, the matter of Petyr Baelish still remains. We are in the middle of winter and all we wish for in such time is peace. The presence of Littlefinger, as well as of someone who has been under his wing for so long, promise something else entirely. And taking your family, it seems obvious what that is.”

“I do not want war either,” denied Sansa, frowning. “You say: under his wing, but I have not allowed Lord Baelish to disturb my thoughts in so long. Do you expect me to trust this man? I am not a halfwit, lady Waynwood. My father believed in him once and then Joffrey Baratheon ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to behead him. After that a friend of mine, Jeyne Poole, our steward’s daughter, was put in Petyr’s care. Did you hear what happened to her? They called her Arya and married off to Lord Bolton’s monstrous son. No, my lady, I shan’t mistake that man for a friend. He is however bright of mind and has Cersei Lannister’s support. Those are things I cannot ignore.”

“So you’ll do nothing, then?” asked Lord Yohn, finally speaking up. “Where is your honour, child, if you’d rather see that snake free rather than hanged for his sins?”

“With your wits, most likely,” she snapped. It must have been the babe, making her so irritable. “I do not wish to die so young, my lord, however honourable such death may be. Or is that what you’re hoping for? No doubt my husband will love to hear this news.”

Mya put a hand on her shoulder, steadying Sansa.

“Myranda,” she called to their friend. “please say something. This all is not lady Sansa’s doing and you know so.”

Randa shook her head full of brown ringlets, mouth twisted in a smirk.

“I _have_ been wondering why is your hair suddenly changing colour,” she told Sansa. Her voice sounded like she was trying very hard not to laugh. “And to think we’ve been hiding a little princess for over four years without even realising! It is quite upsetting to know I haven’t been included in this secrecy, of course. You two will have to make it up to me somehow.”

Her words helped Sansa calm down. She smiled at the woman widely, before turning to Lords Declarant.

“Believe me, I do understand your uneasiness. My promise stands, however: peace. If Lord Baelish wants war, and I can assure you he does, I shall have no part in his game. Not now, not ever. And if it is justice you seek, for the death of late Lord Robert, or any other he no doubt had a hand in, that I can also give you. In due time.”

They fell into silence again. She noticed Myranda giving her uneasy looks from her spot by the door, but decided to instead focus on Bronze Yohn.

“Very well,” he decided at last, his voice uncomfortably loud in the small solar. “Justice in time. Do expect me to visit frequently, my lady. Your hospitality has been quite exceptional, after all. It would be a shame to refrain from it for too long.”

Sansa did not doubt he meant to keep his word.

*

Most of the guests left not three days later, appearing to be content with their stay. Sansa knew they consulted her words with Harry; he’d told her so himself and she really didn’t expect it go any other way. Whatever he said to them must have worked, because soon only Yohn remained at the Gates, most likely trying to threaten her without endangering his reputation. She asked Ser Shadrich to keep an discreet eye on him.

“But they cannot know you’re here yet, or they will think we are trying to start a war, and that’s just ridiculous,” she told Rickon, draping a new fur coat around his shoulders. She had no idea how he managed to survive in the little cave deep in the forest, especially so far into winter, but whenever she brought up the subject of smuggling him into the castle, he would refuse hotly, insisting that Skagos had been far worse. Sansa supposed the presence of a giant direwolf might have granted the boy enough heat; and maybe Ghost came to warm him too – though gods knew neither she nor her brother had any control over the animal.

“Where is Mya?” he asked, looking around as if the girl could have been hiding behind one of the spruces. “She hasn’t come to visit lately. Is she sick?”

Sansa shook her head.

“No, just... I’m not sure. She’s been acting rather odd lately. I suppose it must have something to do with her not being the only one to know the truth anymore. But if you miss her, I’ll let Mya know; it will certainly bright her day.”

He shrugged, picking up a branch and waving it around like a sword. She wished there was a way to fashion him an actual blade he could learn how to fight with, but such things were a lot harder to steal than a couple of apples.

“You told me once Osha taught you how to make spears. Do you have any here?”

“Sure,” he confirmed, visibly happy to discuss the subject. “I’m even getting better at throwing them. Almost as good as that knight who was training outside the other day.”

“Ser Roland Waynwood?”

“Yeah. Him. He threw good.”

“ _Well_. The correct end of that sentence is well, not good. A king must speak properly, or he will appear uneducated and won’t be treated with a lot of respect.”

Her brother lowered the branch, looking up at her with a surprisingly serious expression. It hit her how much he had grown in the last few years; already reaching her chin and still before his tenth name day. _The spring will find him over six feet tall._ But that did not stop him from appearing anxious as he stood before her.

„I can’t be king though, Sansa.”

_What?_

No. No, he had to. They needed Winterfell, for the North and for themselves too. She stared at him, not understanding. _He’s still just a boy,_ she realized. _Younger than poor Sweetrobin had been at the time of his passing and never even taught the ways of kings and lords. An angry, scared child, no more._ He doesn’t realize.

Sansa sat down on the rock behind her, so that their faces were on similar heights.

“You _can_ , my sweet brother,” she assured him. “I know it is hard now, I do, but this is just the beginning when you are still inexperienced. And you will always, always have me there to help. Whenever you need me, I’ll be by your side. I promise.”

He scrunched his face. There were tears in his eyes.

Sansa understood it all too well. No smart or good person ever wanted to sit on a throne, it seemed so obvious then. She remembered the babe with a pudgy face running around Winterfell without fright in his eyes. How long can a person live in constant fear? How long before they’re too ruined to rule? She looked at his face, trying her hardest to read it.

“Bran says we all have to do our duty,” he whispered then. “He always reminds me to listen to you like I listened to Mother once. But you’re not Mother.”

She realized what was going to happen a moment too late. Before Sansa could react, he was before her on his knees.

“Old Nan used to tell us stories about sworn shields, I remember. Or maybe it’s Bran who does. They protected their kings and queens from harm and listened to them.”

The boy did not have a sword of course. Instead, he pulled out a dirty knife’s blade from his left shoe, pushing it into Sansa’s hands.

She backed away, though still holding the weapon.

“Rickon… no! I cannot _rule_. You’re the king… I shall help you, I swear, become Queen Regent if that is what you need me to be, but this? No, I could never do that.”

He did not like her answer, she knew. But this was ridiculous. Replacing him in his duty as King in the North must have been the last thing she could’ve ever wanted. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“I’m ordering you to take it, then,” he decided, standing up, looking more determined than ever. “It’s a king’s order. To let me stop being king.”

So stubborn. He’d always been that way, even before everything ended. Just like Arya and Father. But this? He had no idea what he was talking about.

“The North will accept only a Stark, sweet brother,” she told him, trying to be the voice of reason no matter what. “Harry… they would never like him as their king.”

He snorted then, just like his direwolf sometimes would.

“Good. He’s so stupid. I don’t want him as that too. Harry can stay here and you will tell all our people to come and know you’re queen. If they say it’s not right, they’re stupid too and we’ll feed them to Shaggy.”

 _But I do not want to rule either,_ she almost said, though it did not seem all that necessary. She learned long ago that what she wanted rarely mattered. Still, his last words froze hers in her throat.

We’ll feed them to Shaggy. Robert Arryn often said similar things about Moon Door. And Joffrey…

 _No_ , Sansa decided, shaking those thoughts away. Her little brother was not any of them. Rickon was good.

He was, as a matter of fact, her sworn shield.

She looked down. The blade in her hands trembled.

*

“A Stark?”

She glanced at his face, unsure.

“Dearest, it is the sole possibility. No northern lord or lady will accept a liege with a southern name. There must be a Stark in Winterfell, no one else.”

He was not pleased.

“And can you explain to me how exactly are you planning on convincing those lords that a _lady_ who hasn’t stepped a foot nowhere near the North since she was a child, who has married a the Imp and is currently named Hardyng qualifies as just that?”

She pursed her lips. Wasn’t he the one trained in the art of diplomacy and warfare? (Mya called it “the art of getting what you want and don’t deserve”.) The Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East certainly ought to know the simplest rules of such field.

“There is Rickon, isn’t there? And so is his direwolf and Ghost too, that has to count for something. They will be quite enough evidence. Besides, all that really matters is whether or not there is an army behind our claim, that is all! My lord, no other part of Westeros is as rested and unharmed as ours! Everyone else has been fighting for years, their forces are failing – but we are still strong. As long as we let people know that, they will want to support us. They always do. There needn’t even be a war.”

“Like they welcomed the Boltons. They had an army too and half of the people who knelt before them were planning to retaliate for what happened at the Twins. How will they accept you, or even believe you to be true? Wasn’t there an imposter just a couple of years ago?”

“Jeyne,” she confirmed, glaring at him sharply. “Jeyne Poole. She was the daughter of Winterfell’s steward. My best friend. And those people you are doubting, do not forget it, husband – they were doing it all for the King in the North. For my brother. And they would do the same for me as well.”

She might’ve doubted the truth in her last sentence, but still, the words seemed to have silenced him quite efficiently. She placed her left hand on her round tummy to bring his attention to it.

“My sweet, that place was my home. The Starks have ruled over the North for thousands of years. It is in our blood, like the fire burning in the blood of Targaryens. I won’t ever feel safe anywhere else, not even here, no matter how many Lannisters and Freys leave this world. Please understand. It is my family’s heritage.”

His expression softened and he stroked her cheek lightly.

“Well then, love. It seems your words have convinced me. I’ll win us a kingdom as long as you bear me a son. That sounds just like in the songs, does it not?”

 _A Stark. She was going to be named Sansa Stark, truly, and for the rest of her life too._ In that moment nothing sounded as sweet.

“Very much so,” she smiled, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.

When she later told Myranda and Mya of the conversation, the girls both burst out laughing.

“And he did not even notice that you weren’t asking him for permission?” Randa sniggered, a derisive glint shining in her eyes. “Remind me again why did I want to marry this sorry fool?”

*

The Milk Snakes must have been restrained, because only a sennight after Lord Yohn’s departure Petyr returned to the Gates of the Moon with his small party, all unbothered and in good health. She couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about the fact.

Littlefinger never summoned her to talk about Lords Declarant’s visit. After a couple of days she decided that his reluctance to discuss the matter could not have been good news. Once or twice she caught Ser Lothor Brune sending her warning glances. He’d gone with Petyr to King’s Landing, but seemed nevertheless perfectly informed about Harry’s invitation; there was no way Lord Baelish hadn’t been told of it as well. He _always_ knew.

She was in the castle’s small library, reading of the Targaryen Conquest with Mya, when it happened.

Water was dripping on the carpet from between her legs and suddenly her friend was shouting and grabbing her arm. Maester Colemon appeared out of nowhere, leading them towards Sansa’s bedchamber and there was Myranda too, yelling for a midwife.

Everything seemed to be happening so fast and so loud and she could not register anything, apart from the fact that Harry was away yet again, hunting by the Bloody Gate with Ser Donnel Waynwood. His heir was about to arrive and he wasn’t there for it.

Maester and Mya helped her lay down on her featherbed. She pulled on the girl’s sleeve frantically.

“Lord Baelish,” she whispered in her ear. “Please, I can’t –“ a wave of sharp pain interrupted her for a moment and she cried out, “distract him somehow, can you? I can’t have him here. Or make someone else do it. I want you with me.”

Myranda appeared then, releasing Mya from Sansa’s deadly grip and taking her hand instead.

She did not know how long the birth took, though it certainly seemed to last forever, the sun long gone from the sky before things finally started changing. Gretchel soon arrived to help maester Colemon, but it took quite a while for Mya to come back and by that time, Sansa was convinced the child was going to rip her in half.

“Lord Petyr won’t come, don’t worry,” she heard the woman say. “I made sure of that. It’s all going to be well.”

He had auburn hair.

She would have started crying if the labour hadn’t pushed every single tear out of her eyes by then. The boy was tiny and covered in blood, screaming his lungs out, but the surprisingly thick mop of dark red hair was still perfectly visible even to her tired vision. She felt Gretchel place him on her stomach, wrapped in a soft grey blanket.

“The Eyrie has a new heir,” she announced with pride, but Sansa knew how untrue that was. Her Robb wasn’t meant to rule the Vale. She was going to keep him far North, safe in Winterfell, free from people who could wish him any harm.

“I love you,” she told him, smiling wider than she had in years. “I love you so much.”

Never had those words felt more true than at that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Sansa Stark  
> Year: 304 AL  
> Time period: 9 moons  
> Characters: Sansa Stark, Harry Hardyng, Rickon Stark, Mya Stone, Petyr Baelish, Myranda Royce, Robert Arryn, Maester Colemon, Yohn Royce, Jasper Redfort, Ser Shadrich, Anya Waynwood, Ser Symond Templeton, Eustace Hunter


End file.
